Correlation
by Neiize
Summary: Born into a homophobic family, Ray finds himself wandering the streets of New York following his abrupt coming out. After moving in with Tala and Kai, Ray warms up to his hostile surroundings until another secret sends him on the run once more. KaixRay
1. The One Where It All Starts

**Author**: Neiize

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Beyblade or anything else that brings in a sufficient amount of money, for that matter. What I do own is the storyline and plot that go on in my story and the occasional OC, but that is all. I write for the sake of writing, and nothing more.

**Warning**: Language

**Author's Notes**: It seems that plot ideas keep popping into my head around the time intervals of 1-6 A.M., which is not the best thing for my sleeping cycles. Alas, If it's a good idea, it cannot be ignored. Reviews would be very kindly appreciated, as it is one of the only things that keep me going.

Here we go...

* * *

The One Where It All Starts

* * *

Five reasons why this guy is the hottest thing I've ever seen:  
1.) Those eyes. My God, I've never seen blood red eyes in my life. He's not wearing contacts, either. You can tell, because there isn't that fake look to it. You'd think it'd be creepy, but it's endearing on him.  
2.) Hair the colour of morning doves. Its grey, but not the look-at-me-I'm-more-mature-than-I-actually-look-so-I-decided-to-take-my-grandfather's-hair-tips kind of look. More like the natural, flawless colour of a shiny new nickel. Or kinky handcuffs. Whatever floats your boat.  
3.) Butt. 'Nough said.  
4.) He's frowning, and it just makes him that much more delectable. A smile has no place on those perfect, thin lips. They're pink. God, they're pink, pure bright pink. In this decade that's as rare as a talented Disney star.  
5.) He's holding my Mocha Cappuccino in his hand, and it looks a notch less delectable than he does. That just gives him another point.

Score? 1,000,001/10.

"Sir?" He asks, sounding completely bored.

"Hmmmmm?" I drone. He pulled me out of my train of thought, the train's conductor of course being him, in his birthday suit.

"Your coffee,"

"What about it?" I ask, sounding completely out of it.

He sighs, trying not to look frustrated in front of a customer. One obviously lacking in the noggin department, but still a customer. "Take it."

"Oh," I say, sounding like I get it.

Pause.

"Oh! My coffee! Finally. God, service here is horrible," I joke.

He looks at me like he wants to splash the scalding drink onto my face.

"Uh," I stammer. _Rebound, Kon, rebound! Aim for smart and sophisticated. Say something witty._

"Hey, did you see that ugly Volvo parked outside? It looks like the backside of Sarah Jessica Parker's ass. Those things should be outlawed."

"That's my car."

I cock an eyebrow. _Minus one point for the pug ugly car_. "Really?"

"No. Please take your coffee, sir." He's grinding his teeth now. Shiny, white teeth. Yum.

"Wait, it's not your car? Why'd you say it was? I thought I offended you! You could have given me some warning that you had a twisted sense of humor, or something."

"Sir, just _please_-"

"What kind of music do you like?" I try again. "I really-"

"Are you mentally retarded?" He blurts, losing all patience.

I gawked at him for half a second at him. So, it seems like his polite, hot, tempting, hot, sexy, hot, little coffee-worker boy look was all a façade.

I start to respond, but then I realize that there's an angry guy standing behind me with a hardhat, a tool belt, an upper body the size of Chicago, and a heavy looking hammer in said tool belt, clicking his tongue like his life depended on it.

Even though he has this expression on his face like he wants to kill me, he looks like the patient type. Well, he looks like the ugly type, but one could hope. He'll understand if I ask him to wait a couple of minutes, won't he?

"Hey, asshole, could you hurry the hell up? I've eaten kids bigger than you for just bumping _into_ me, let alone you pissing me off by standing there like a dumbass."

Me thinks he's not the understanding type.

"Sorry," I grumble, scrapping the idea. I grab my cappuccino quickly and stalk out, but not before catching a little smile on Hotty McHott Hott's adorably pink lips. I wondered if he found my awkward bumbling cute, or if he was just happy that I was getting out of the place before he had to clean up the drool that was bound to let loose if I had stared at him for ten seconds longer.

I cringe when the cold air of a New York winter hit my face. You'd think I'd be used to that whole shock of how wickedly cold it is in mid-North America in December, but no. It's like I came here from Jamaica on a ray of sunshine and crack. I wrapped my arms around my Popsicle of a torso while I head straight towards the bus stop that was a few steps away from me. No idea where it's going, but it's _going_, which was the point.

I walk into the little bus hedge, catching the eye of the only woman sitting on the bench. I sit next to her, nursing my cappuccino. Good mocha. But what the hell was up with the sizes? Tall, grandé? I'm sorry, I don't speak coffee; the last time I checked, it was an inanimate object, and did not need its own _language and serving sizes_. Stupid Americans.

While I down the rest of my drink, I realize that I didn't pay for it. I stop drinking quickly, imaging the displeased look that would cross Hotty McHott Hott's face when he realized he was a few bucks short.

"Ha! I'm so stealth!" I yell too loudly, big smile plastered onto my face.

The woman sitting beside me suddenly twitches like someone punched her. She turns her wide eyes to stare at me, looking all scared.

I bite my tongue, resisting the temptation to laugh. Then I continue drinking my coffee as if nothing had happened, as if _she _was the insane one, not me. _Keep telling yourself that, Ray.  
_  
I rub my forehead; trying to get my fingers to magically turn into liquid Advil so I could mush the sucker into my head like there was no tomorrow isn't quite working as well as I hoped it would. I dropped my hands and stared at the empty Starbucks cup.

There was something hard prodding my thigh, and I dipped my hand into my jean pocket to see what it was. Sweet! My iPod. Thought I left the thing back home, along with the rest of my life.

I quickly found and selected _Reptilia_ by _The Strokes_ and listened to the fast paced song with a sense of familiarity. I remember the days when I could sit in my nice, warm, cozy home, Facebook stalk people with this song streaming through my big, expensive iPod speakers while I took a huge sip of a French vanilla coffee from Tim Hortons, _not_ Starbucks. I'd be pissed that this coffee is way too overpriced if I had actually paid for it.

Anyways. Back to me.

So, let me just get this off my chest before we start getting all chummy with each other.

I'm gay._  
_  
I know what you're thinking: _You're gay! No way! I would have never suspected!_

Har, har. And Ashlee Simpson is a talented singer in your world, isn't she?

Let me just explain the extent of this now. Simply put, I'm gay as a daffodil. Well, not stereotypically. I don't like chick flicks, I don't talk with an a lisp and the tone of someone who just inhaled a tank full of helium, I don't cry when I break a nail, and I don't attend gay pride parades with nothing but a rainbow-coloured G-string.

I'm more like one of those normal gay guys who doesn't flaunt it by wearing thongs and a butt plug out into public. I'm pretty well-rounded, except when I see guys like Hotty. Then my brain kinda just melts into a seeping mush of prepubescent teenage girl.

Back to me. Gay, gay, gay. Gayer than a cocktail made out of actual cocks. As you can tell I'm not quite bummed out by this fact, as I've come to accept it over the course of my nineteen years. My parents, on the other hand, were a bit more than "bummed". Try homicidal. Try disbelieving. Try antagonizing. Try angry to the point of actually becoming purple, which is quite a feat for us yellow people.

I don't really want to go into detail about how the whole fiasco went down, so here's a transcript of the events:

**RAY**: Mom, dad? Can I talk to you a minute? It's kinda… really, really, life-alteringly important.  
**MOM**: What's wrong, sweetheart?  
**RAY**: Well….  
**DAD**: C'mon, son. Spit it out.  
**RAY**: I just… I don't know how to… Oh, God.  
**MOM**: What is this about, Raymond?  
**DAD**: If it's about the broken vase in the basement, we already know. We took a hundred from your account to pay for it. No harm, no foul.  
**RAY**: Because a broken vase is life-alteringly important, Dad.  
**DAD**: Hey. Watch the mouth.  
**RAY**: Sorry. I'm just nervous.  
**MOM**: I'm worried, dear. You're sweating, and you look so pale.  
**DAD**: He always looks pale.  
**MOM**: That's true. Poor little baby's white as a ghost. We should take him to some sort of tanning salon, something.  
**DAD**: Lin, the boy's not a _fag_.  
**RAY**: Actually, you'd be surprised.

And I'm pretty sure you can imagine what went down next, but let me fill you in on just one little piece of the puzzle: they must have seized my whole bank account with the amount of artifacts my dad clobbered after he finally believed my confession, and my mom, being the effeminate woman that she is, tried to perk up the situation by mumbling "I've always wanted a daughter," between my Dad's shouting of "GET OUT, GET OUT OF THE HOUSE YOU FAG!" And so, I was out the door before I got to see the most recent thing my Dad smashed to bits.

And, you know, being kicked out for being gay isn't something I really wanted stapled onto my social life or university application when I wrote in the field of "residence", so I kind of just took off. Out of the country, as a matter of fact. I lived in Canada, years ago, before the dawn of time. Okay, three days ago, but whatever. I'm the dramatic type.

What's worse? New York sucks donkey balls. It's dirty everywhere, everything is too expensive even with the recent rise of the Canadian dollar, and there's about 3.2 hobos for every block (I did the math on the bus). Besides the encounter of the boy I have so rightly decided to nickname Hotty, it's been pretty horrible.

Another man enters the little bus booth I've been sitting in and takes a seat beside me. I shift a bit as to give him more room, and pull my legs up to my chest. I start flipping through my songs, don't find anything that fits my mood, and replay _Reptilia_. I sigh a little louder than necessary, and the balding jackass turns and gives me a glare worse than Hotty had been giving me, and he looked like he was about to stick a knife through my heart. This guy must have a portable shovel in his ugly Jansport backpack to finish the job.

"Do you mind?" He asks.

My incredibly annoying habit of breathing must be ticking him off.

"Sorry," I grumble for the second time today.

I know what you're thinking, again, because I'm a mind reader. How am I a mind reader? I'm Asian. But anyways, you're thinking, _Ray, seriously, just go back home and talk with your folks. I'm sure they'll understand._

Har, har. You're a big fan of Ashlee, am I right?

I can't go back because _you_, my friend, have never met my parents. My mom? Sure, I could sit down, have a nice talk, and tell her how I feel. She'd welcome me back with open arms.

My old man? Ha. He's this hardcore Jesus lover that would thank God if he took a shit on his face, rather then punch him in the gut like any sane person would. He's been to millions of those anti-gay protests, sends snooty glares to the lesbian couple that comes to the hospital to get ultrasounds every month, and even has a bunch of those "Adam and Eve, _not_ Adam and Steve" bumper stickers. Stupid hate monger.

In fact, my Dad has told me on several occasions he would have become a priest if _his_ Dad didn't object and hadn't pushed him into medicine.

And I would have told them sooner if _my_ dad wasn't pushing hate on me. Funny how things work out.

I look up and see the man and the woman sitting on my opposite ends stand up, and I pull out both earbuds from my ears.

The bus had finally arrived, after approximately half an hour. Back home, the bus stops had digital clocks that told you when each bus was coming, and it was usually no longer than 15 minute intervals between each arrival.

Someone get the Americans an LED screen, for Christ's sake.

I walked into the bus, and after the other two paid up, it was my turn. I dug one hand into my pocket and pulled out an American five. Oh God, the whole process of getting my money exchanged was somewhere between excruciatingly annoying and funny. The attendant was some Mexican lady with an accent stronger than Arnold Schwarzenegger. She was speaking English to me, and the whole time she mistook me for Mexican and started speaking her native tongue. And you know how she said 'it's a'? Izza. I died of laughter. Good times.

I looked at the bus driver. Stocky, mid 30's, grumpy. Hey there, sunshine.

"Is this enough?" I ask.

"It's 3 bucks, kid. I don't got any change for ya."

_I don't got any change for ya_. I can feel my I.Q. lowering by the second.

"Keep the change," I say hesitantly. I only have two hundred on me, and so far I'd blown fifty getting here.

"Whatever you say, kid." He grabs the five from me and sticks it in the money slot.

I start walking over to the back to find a more private seat. The front isn't crowded, but the rear end of the bus is nearly deserted (ha, I said rear end). When I take my seat I only keep one earphone in so I can be aware of all the creeps around me. Don't want to get "accidently" stabbed. Health care isn't free here.

I sit there for about a minute, concentrating on the song I've been listening to for the past 5 minutes, when the bus pulls into this street that looks the epitome of the word "hell hole". Even being so far from the ground, you could see this huge rat squirm its way through a water pipe and into a sewer.

God, isn't New York supposed to be glamorous and upscale? Whoever the hell interpreted this piece of crap as 'the place to be' deserves multiple foots up his ass.

Oh, my God. Is it normal for there to be a limp body strewn on the streets?

I smiled a bit when, coincidently, the next lyric of _Reptilia_ reflected exactly what I was thinking:

_This world is not for you._  
_  
_I was still staring out the window, looking at old abandoned houses with wooden planks nailed onto their windows, when I saw this not-so-crappy looking motel. It's not like I could quite afford a stay at the Hilton, so I guess I should settle with whatever comes my way.

I reach up to pull the yellow cord that signaled a stop to the bus driver, but didn't find one. What the hell? They can't even afford to put a wire on this bus? That extra two bucks I coughed up should fucking cover it!

I stood up suddenly, waving my hands in the air, shouting, "STOP!"

A few of the passengers looked at me with bored expressions, like this was _normal_. The others didn't even twitch.

"Hey! I said _stop_! Stop the bus!"

Silence.

"Fucking cunts," I griped.

It's funny how it's not so quiet anymore.

"What the hell did you just say?" Asks the same douche from the bus stop, unibrow wiggling like a worm. The other passengers were looking at me with expressions ranging from disapproving to irritated.

I ignored him and walked to the front of the bus. The driver had stopped for the light, and I could walk back to the motel quickly.

"I'm talking to you, punk!"

I turned around, just about ready to snap. "Fuck off."

He stood up for his seat, wobbling slightly even though the bus was at a dead stop. I giggled. He got madder. "What's so funny, assmunch?!"

Shit. I'm considering the odds of winning if I got into a fight, and I don't really think I could take on Rob Reiner here alone. "I sai-"

That's when the tired looking driver opened the front opening to the bus, and said, "Just get outta this here place, kid."

Even though I wanted to slap him for butchering the English language, I walked a bit too quickly towards the door and muttered a quick "thanks" when he was close enough to hear. He nodded, and I jumped off the vehicle and onto the gritty pavement.

As the bus drove away, I inhaled the dirty air deeply and started choking. Wonderful. Even breathing is a threat to your health here.

I turned around and walked back to where I saw the motel. Jesus Christ, this place is like one of those scenes you see in the movie where those drive-by shootings always happen and the innocent little kid minding his own business always gets hit and dies and no one cares because who the hell is he, anyways? The movie wasn't even _about_ him.

I started fast walking, feeling my heart beat faster. I made it back to the motel quickly and stepped inside, expecting to feel a sense of security.

It's hard to feel secure when you walk into a robbery.

"Put your hands up!", the masked thief yelled, a gun in his hand, which besides my iPod has to be the most sophisticated piece of technology I've seen in this country so far.

I wasn't sure whether or not to put my arms up, simply because I had just walked in, and the robber had his back to me; it's not like such a welcoming place like this would have a the jingle of a bell to signal entrance, so I could safely say that my coming in had gone unnoticed to the douche with the gun.

But what was I supposed to do? I'm not exactly the heroic type, as most people who scream when a fly is within a two meter radius aren't. But, I'm pretty sure if I ran somewhere for help, I wouldn't find anyone with a cell phone and all the houses are pretty much empty in these here parts (God help me, I'm talking like them).

"Gimme all the money, lady!" The robber yelled, pointing the gun towards the receptionist. I knew she had noticed me because her bright blue eyes had flicked to me for a fraction of a second, so I guessed she didn't look at me now for help because she didn't want the thief to kill me. Probably, she was expecting me to do something unselfish and noble.

Wonderful. Now I have to break character to please people.

When I took a step forward to somehow help, I felt the quick spasm of fear that was missing when I first walked in shoot up my veins, and I froze in my spot. Everything suddenly fell into place. _Oh my God, it's a robbery. He has a fucking gun! Don't fucking move, he'll kill you! Shit, shit, shit! I'm going to die in fucking America!_

I watched with horror as the front desk lady pulled out a few rolled up bills of cash from under the table she was sitting at. I gulped. The second he's done with her he's going to turn around and see me. Then what do I do? What will he do?

I wanted to move, to run the hell out of the door I was a few steps away from and never look back. But I couldn't move. I was lodged in my place, frozen with fear. I was surprised he didn't hear my fucking heart pop out of my chest and fall to the ground.The robber looked through the few measly wads of cash he had received. "That's all?"

The receptionist nods.

"What the fuck!" He yells, throwing the money to the floor. "This gun cost more than _that_!"

He starts pacing, and that's when he notices me standing there, practically shitting my pants. He raises his gun and points it right at me. I feel like screaming, but my throat is so dry I can't even swallow, let alone work up a good yell.

He looks me up and down before he talks. "Whatcha doin' here, rich boy? Get lost?"

I stare, too scared to say a word.

"Gimme all your money, kid. Mommy and Daddy can't help you now," He sneers.

Remind me, why is America the place to 'live the dream'?

"I only have one hundred fifty," I say honestly. I'm surprised that I can even talk. My voice cracked on the last word.

"For fuck's sake," He says, sounding frustrated. Poor, poor gun wielding maniac. Can't even make a good living these days. Then he walks towards me, and presses the gun to my temple. The receptionist brings her hands to cover her mouth, holding back a sob. "How do I know you're not lying?"

I ignore him. "I have an iPod," I say. On the inside I'm having a stroke, but on the outside I look as calm as calm can be. "You can have that and the money. Just leave me _and_ the woman alone."

He punches me in the gut, and I hunch over. I hear a loud scream from the back, and the douche beside me yells "Shut up! Shut up, you bitch!" to the defenseless woman. I'm angry, but then again I'm scared for my life. I bite back my cries of pain, still hunched over.

"Don't fucking make any deals with me, pretty boy, you got that?" He says. I guess people don't take very kindly to iPods in this country.

I nod.

He sighs loudly, as if having to deal with a tough decision. Kill everyone, or take the profit and leave? His brain must be working a mile a minute.

"Cough it up, pageant queen."

I resist scoffing at the insult and pull out my iPod from one pocket and the money from the other. I hold them up, my hands shaking. My gut still hurts from the blow. He takes both quickly and runs out the door.

I'm still shaking when I fall to my knees, breathing heavily. My eyes are wide, as if I just witnessed something horribly indecent, like child birth. Well, I did just witness a robbery. That's got to count for something.

I can hear the woman receptionist crying, and then I hear heels clacking towards me. I look up. She's pretty tall, or maybe I just think that 'cause I'm on the floor.

I pull myself up on my feet. She smiles halfheartedly, tears still streaming down her face. "Are you alright, dear?"

I feel a fault line break in my heart, and I let out a tear I had been saving for later. Her voice just reminded me of how much I miss my Mom. "Yeah."

"Oh, sweetie." She says in that damn voice, which causes a few more tears to spill over. She runs back to her desk and brings back a box of tissues, which I decline, my masculinity stepping in. I wipe away the tears quickly.

"I…" I pause, before I was sure I could trust myself to speak. "I need a room."

"A room?" She asks, before her mind makes the connection to the words. "Oh, a room. Of course, dear. Right this way."

I follow her as she walks back to the desk with the box of tissues in hand. Then she stops, seeing the money the robber had thrown on the floor. I shiver, thinking of the bastard.

She bends over to pick up the three wads of cash. "It's no where near enough what you had to give up, but it's still something," she says quietly, like she was talking to herself. She walks over and hands me the money. "Take it. You saved my life."

My parents (God, what I would do to see them again) have always taught me to never except gifts when not necessary. Just a basic rule of manners in the Kon household. But I feel my basic struggle to live kick in, and I take the cash without a second thought. "Thanks."

She smiles, this time meaning it. For Christ's sake. She _smiles_ like my Mom, too. "Don't mention it, darling. Now let's get you settled in, shall we?"

I wait as she types a few things into her Jurassic-period computer. I notice the mangled up tissues on the desk, with mascara and eyeliner and that scrapped streaked all over them. I grind my teeth, getting mad at the douche that made me look like a wimp, and scared the kind woman into tears.

Although I'm not the bravest guy, I feel kinda like a pussy for just standing there, giving my shit away to some piece of crap that probably couldn't even spell 'gun' let alone know how to shoot one. But then again, I feel like I did the right thing, because even if I did something witty or brave I'd probably be in a morgue right now. Oh, what a life I live. Picking fights with poor bus passengers one hour, and pleading with insane gunmen the next. The thrills just never stop.

"Name?" She asks, interrupting my thoughts.

"Ray Kon."

"Age?"

"Nineteen." I answer. I wait for her to punch it all in. She types pretty slow.

"Alrighty sweetie, you're good to go. These are your keys," –she points to a ratty set of rusted keys- ", and the washroom in just down the hall. You're on the second floor. You're welcome to take the elevator if you'd like."

Wow. An elevator. I didn't even think they'd have one of those here.

I thank her again and start walking towards the crusty looking buttons on the far wall that are I assume are for the elevator when I stop and turn around.

"Oh, I forgot to pay you," I say, flipping through the bills. There's around a hundred bucks, all in tens.

"Don't worry about it." she dismisses.

I look at her. "….Seriously?"

Another point of manners in the Kon household: nothing is for free, even free samples at Costco. If it's not yours, you don't take it. I feel like I'm committing a crime here.

She smiles at me. "Sweetheart, you saved both of our lives. This is the very least I could do. Now, enjoy your free ride and go get settled in." She looks me up and down before adding jokingly, "Don't forgot to unpack."

I smile at the corny joke. "Thank you. Again."

"No problem, darling."

So then I run from the awkward moment and press the spider-web encrusted button. The door opens with a creak, and gets stuck halfway through. I roll my eyes and squeeze in, pressing the '2' button.

As I stand there in the crappy ass elevator with not even some music to take my mind of things, I realize how hungry I am and that I really need to take a shit. God, what in fuck's name is that smell? It's like a cross between a bean-induced fart and a dead… something. I can't even think properly anymore. There's probably mercury is the air. I'm dying. I'm going insane.

The elevator suddenly jerks to a stop, and I cling onto nothing for support, meaning I fall straight onto my ass. I look around, and the lights in the little box go off, leaving me as blind as a fucking bat.

"Fan-fucking-tastic." I say.

Suddenly, I see the boy back in the coffee shop in my head, too tired to be thinking dirty and flirtatious thoughts. It's funny how I started the day just like any other, waking up in my big, cozy, king size bed, and most likely ending it off in a two-bit bed frame, no mattress involved (I'm psychic, remember?).

And then I hear something snap, and half of the elevator goes down in a tilt. I slide down with it, stopping only when I hit the wall.

Welcome to the freedom land, Kon.

* * *

Read and Review, please.


	2. The One With the Soviet

**Author: **Neiize

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Beyblade or anything else that brings in a sufficient amount of money, for that matter. What I do own is the story line and plot that go on in my story and the occasional OC, but that is all. I write for the sake of writing, and nothing more.**  
**  
**Warning: **Language

**Author's Notes: **Complete story overhaul.

Here's a little secret I'll let you in on: my characters speak to me. Well, it's more like I hear them in my head. Insane? Yes, but bear with me.

Really, one day I'll be at the movies with a huge crowd of friends, and then I'll get a random saying that Ray or Kai or anyone would say, and it's an A+ statement, something really true to the character. So then I'll either scramble for a pen and paper or text it down on my cell phone notes with such excitement and passion, my friends stare at me like an exotic zoo exhibit.

So, since I get little commands in my head sometimes, it tempts me beyond reason to change some story lines. Just a few snippets, like a small part of a character's personality or an unimportant setting. Nothing big.

This time, something very big happened.

I had a very solid, predictable story line in mind for this story: Ray and Kai become friends, they fall in love, and Ray reunites with his family, blah blah blah.

Now, it's completely different.

Which brings me to the reasoning of my rant: if it takes me longer to update (like it has this time), or if you see strange messages plastered in any of my works or writing, know that it's just me being incredibly confused with my story line. I don't have a clear sense of "the end" in this one, because it's completely bouncy at the moment. And any other writer can relate with me here: you don't know your end, you don't know your story.

So I apologize, and ask you to hang on for a little while.

And I sincerely apologize for my insanity, and any poor soul who sat and read through that.

Now onto the story.

* * *

The One With the Soviet

* * *

I would like to know what heinous crime I have committed to deserve a group of preppy looking whores chasing my ass like there's a wad of cash glued to it. They keep staring at me, like they've never seen an Asian guy in their lives. I suppose white people enjoy the hilarity that comes with my slanted eyes.

"Hey!" I hear one of them yelling. I turn around, and she starts waving her hand in the air, like she was trying to swat a fly away. One of her harpies screams "Oh my God, shut _up_!" and slaps her hand down. Giggling ensues.

While I'm halfway across the supermarket from the tramps, I can still hear them. To keep myself distracted, I imagine future newspaper headlines (I'm in a richer side of town, which means they've already discovered folded paper and ink here) with a big smile plastered onto my face. _Breaking News; four teenage girls found in back alley of Handerson's Foods sprinkled with rice and choked to death with fortune cookies.  
_  
Rice. That reminds me, I need some. I stop and stare at the fifty aisles (okay, 5), in agitation. Oh, screw it. I'm in no fucking mood to dig through every brand of rice and find one that's 1) not complete crap, and 2) cheap.

Why am I in a bad mood, you ask? Well, idiot, I'm sure you remember my little "almost-dying-in-crappy-elevator" incident. Yeah, well, I was in there blind as a bat for a good two hours until one in the morning, when they finally pried me out of there. Then, when I got to my "room", all I saw was nothing. Seriously, no lights, no nothing. There's no electricity past the first floor, the secretary told me.

So I'm digging around my room, tired and needing to shit really badly, trying to find this bed. And when I find it, it turns out to be this dinky little cot thing. How did I know that, you ask? I banged my fucking knee against the thing, which was at most three inches off of the ground.

Long story short: I got two hours of sleep before I realized I hadn't eaten all day. And after a huge bruise on my knee, two buses and an old, delusional lady asking me if I was Jackie Chan, here I am.

"Are you in line?" Asks an old woman in a parka.

"Yeah, I am."

"Alright," She says and steps behind me.

I sigh. Long and loud.

It seems that the 'sigh' has become a daily morning ritual for me, right in before sigh two and two steps before a 'largay' coffee from Starshmucks.

And in remembering the coffee, I also remember I am a caffeine addict, and that I really need a good shot of a French Vanilla so I don't go ninja in the next five minutes.

I pay the twenty over-priced bucks for the three items I bought, catch a quick bus, and jump off when I reach my stop. Half-running into the heated store, my nerves so completely shot that I'd even kick a crippled kid holding a puppy out of my way, I smile at the warm atmosphere.

Then frown like I just witnessed an episode of The Simple Life.

Holy crap. Look at the fucking lines! I walk around, trying to figure out which line was the shortest. For God's sake. It's like they're giving out free health insurance or something. God knows the Americans need it. Hell, I've been here for two days and I think I need it. I accidentally touched an old guy's beard on the bus, and logically came to the conclusion that I have full blown AIDS.

I stop my mental jabbering and look around. The third and last line was about two people shorter than the rest, so I was about to grab my spot before the obese black man who just walked in could, when I noticed something that made my jaw drop and my heart beat a mile a minute.

I cocked my head and moved a bit closer to the front counters, trying to make sure I wasn't just having some blissful mirage appear five feet away from me.

When I was sure I was seeing things straight, my chest inflated and a big smile spread its way to my face.

Hotty!

He was looking as… hot, as ever. He was the cashier in the first line, so I quickly aborted mission and walked towards his cash register faster than Rob Reiner running after a hamburger.

His lips were still that unexplainably beautiful pink, he still had that frown his face, and the face in question was even paler than mine. Part Albino? I think so.

As more and more people ordered their choices and left and I moved closer to him via the line, I noticed new things that I didn't the last time; he has cheekbones so high they're almost touching his eyes (ha! I rhymed, sort of) the end of his nose is slightly upturned, and his bangs look like they were home-sheared, but suited him incredibly well.

As the fat Asian (hey, I thought I was the only one in America) in front of me picks up his sandwich and leaves, I feel myself bouncing on the heels of my feet, giddy as hell.

"Next customer, please," he says, sounding tired.

He's looking down; counting change, so he doesn't realize it's me again. I feel like jumping onto his back with a clown's wig and yelling "SURPRISE!" just to see how he'd react.

I bite my tongue before speaking. "Hi."

"Hello," he says. He's still looking down, counting change. "What would you like to order, sir?"

I frown, disappointed. _Alright, so he doesn't recognize your voice. What, you spoke like, four sentences to him, and to add he probably thinks you're some kind of psycho. Don't let it get you down.  
_  
I frown more, realizing what an idiot I must have been. Isn't the little voice in your head supposed to help?

"Oh," he says. I refocus my eyes on him. He's staring at me with an apathetic expression. "It's you."

I smile. "You remembered!"

"What would you like, sir?"

_No time for reunions now. _"Hm… how about we try a French vanilla this time?"

He nods, punching it in the register. "What size?"

Oh, God. This is going to take an hour. "Uh, how do you say large in coffee?"

The corners of his lips twitch. "Vente."

"For fuck's sake," I say. I dig in my pockets and pull out a five. "What in hell's name does that even mean?"

He shrugs. "It's 4.50."

_Playing hard to get, I see._ "Overpriced piece of crap," I mumble, under my breath.

"If you think it's too much, buy yourself a coffee maker and stop complaining," he says. He sounds irritated. Aw, the extremely good looking asshole had a hard day.

"If I could afford a coffee maker, or electricity for that matter, I wouldn't be here."

He looks me swiftly up and down. "You don't look like those bums that are scattered all over town."

I cock an eyebrow and grin at the slight conversation I've created. "I've been wearing these clothes for the past two days."

His eyebrows rise while he _still_ keeps his eyes on the register. "Ah."

Then a short girl comes up behind him with, God bless her, my French vanilla. She smiles a little too brightly when she hands Hotty the cup, and I grimace in defence.

He gives me the coffee. "Have a _superb_ day," he says sarcastically, in an exact imitation of Ben Stein's voice.

I laugh and imitate his voice, but add a bit of zombie into the mix. "You as well, Mortisha."

Wonderful. Another murderous glare is just what I needed today.

My smile drops and I scowl. "Oh, fuck you." I say, and walk out with a few daring glances from other customers who overhead the conversation in my direction.

The second I'm out of the store, I wrap my free arm around my torso the exact second a whip of cold air passes against me. _A guy can't catch a fucking break. _I chug down my coffee out of annoyance, and then I realize it's as hot as Hotty, and I choke and spit it out onto the sidewalk.

Holy motherloving crap, it's like someone covered my tongue with a fucking curling iron! I jump on one foot and move around, doing anything to forget the permanent burn I'll have on my tongue. At the same time my mouth's wide open with my tongue sticking out, and I'm sort of moaning in writhing agony.

It takes me about 20 seconds after I've gotten into the ritualistic "holy-crap-I'm-on-fire" dance to realize I'm doing this in public on the better side of town where people have I.Q.'s which aren't single digits, and are fully capable of justifiably judging me. And also there's a few people staring at me and throwing change.

I stop immediately, holding my stance, and noticing a thick comb of vibrant red hair on a very pale head, staring at me like he's never seen an Asian having a seizure before. The rest of the people gathered around whisper while watching me momentarily then walk away, and I quickly go back to normal composure and run a hand through my hair and flip my pockets, acting like nothing happened.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Reddy asks, sounding amused.

I'm surprised that he isn't butchering the English language like every other "person" in Poo Pork (ha, I'm funny) besides Hotty has, and that he's even talking to me. Most of the people here won't talk to you unless you're in a thong, trashy high heels and working corners. So I shrug casually and _very carefully_ take another sip of the French Vanilla, then point at the cup.

"I burnt my tongue."

"And you break into 70's disco every time you burn yourself?"

I smile. "No, I was trying to not think about it. You know, distract myself from the pain?"

"Really? Is that what you were doing?" He asks sarcastically, and puts one hand on his hip. I notice he has an Armani bag in that particular hand, and my eyes kind of, _sort of_ pop out of their sockets and bleed until I die. _Armani? They have Armani here?  
_  
He notices my health issue and follows my glance, and cocks an eyebrow. "What, never seen a shopping bag before?"

"Not in fucking New York!" I practically yell, and his eyebrow almost cocks to his hairlin..

"I'm taking it you're not from here?"

"Well, no, I'm-" I cut short, before narrowing my eyes sceptically.

"What?"

"I'd rather not disclose that information to a stranger who looks like he could be Slavic."

His lips purse defensively and anger glints along his brow. "What's wrong with Slavic people?"

_Touchy, touchy._ "Nothing, except they can kick my ass before I could blind them with rice grains."

He snorts, amused by my answer. That joke would have usually knocked out an audience, and he's barely smiling. "That's racist."

"No, that's comedy."

He glances swiftly to the side, like those slick guys in those high-paid Hollywood movies, not noticing the winks he gets from passing by sluts in heels the length of a skyscraper. He peers at his brand-name looking watch and then back to me with a smirk. He looks me up and down, stares for a while, and looks kind of pained for some reason.

"Look, I've got to be somewhere."

"Oh," I say. I sound disappointed. "Wait, what?" I ask myself, confused. "What do I care? I don't even know you. Okay. Bye." I turn around and start walking away.

"Wait." He says. I stop and turn back on my heel. He notices my disparaging expression and rolls his eyes.

"I'll be out of work in a couple of hours. It's two now, and I'll be gone at five. It'll take the taxi half an hour, and then a bit…. How about I meet you at the Starbucks on West End Avenue at six?"

My mouth hangs open as I listen to him speak of all this, like he's not some poor hobo who can't even spell his name. _Taxis? They have taxis? They have cars? They have civilization? Since fucking when? _

He notices my distress, and seems annoyed. "You okay?"

I nod, very slowly. I close my mouth and think of a way to phrase my sentence, as not to offend him.

"I'm fine. But, uh, well. I've been here for about… oh, a day or so, and I've got to tell you, New York, it um…. Sucks donkey balls."

He smiles in a patronizing way, like I'm a complete idiot. "Do you know where you are right now?"

"…Oh god, am I in the wrong fucking state?"

He laughs loudly, kind of like a mock. "No, for Christ's sake. You're in the god damn ghetto."

"Well I kind of figured. This whole state is a hell hole."

"No, you're in the ghetto of New York. As in, the worst of the best."

It takes me a while before I realize what he's trying to tell me. _Is he serious?_ Even though I'm completely zoned out and trying to imagine such a wondrous impossibility on the inside, outside I just look like I'm slightly pissed off. So when I speak, the hysterical edge to my voice seems odd compared to my body language.

"So, you're telling me not all of this place is worn-down buildings and poor people and some dead guy that's been rotting on the street for the past 24 hours?"

"Yup." He exaggerates the word so it ends with a hard "p" sound.

I consider that for a minute. "Huh. You learn something new everyday."

He rolls his eyes. He's a sarcastic one. "Real educating, ain't it?"

I cringe. "Oh, God!"

"What? What's wrong?"

"If I hear _one more_ person slaughter the English language like that I'm going ninja on all of your asses."

He chuckles, brisk and quiet. Then he realizes something and frowns a bit, looking behind me, his eyes searching for something. "I have to go."

"Oh. Oh, sure." It's not right that I feel disappointed.

"West End Avenue, alright?" He says, walking backwards towards where a bus is stopped, people slowly getting aboard. Must have been why he was looking behind me. "Just keep walking down until you get to the Starbucks. It's right at the corner."

I nod and pretend to get it. "Sure, sure."

He turns around fully and starts half-running to the bus, looking like he's not enjoying the concept of riding on public transit, when I remember that I just had a half-hour conversation with insert-name-here.

"Wait a second! I don't even know your name!" I yell.

"Tala! Tala Ivanov!" He yells back while he walks onto the bus coolly, leaving me staring at his trail.

_Huh. Weird name._ I'm about to turn around to head back to the motel when I notice an Albino-looking hand wave gracefully out the bus's back window. I stop and stare while the vehicle wheezes, starts up and moves slowly.

He sticks his head out slightly and smiles coyly. "And for the record, I'm Russian. Born and raised."

And the cab shoots away.

A few minutes of standing there in a lack-of-sleep induced daze, I snap out of it and frown.

"What the hell was that?" I ask myself aloud. There's not a lot of people around now, so I don't get the daily weird stare.

I sigh and turn around, walking back to my crappy ass motel, still thinking about this so-called "Tala".

First off, who the hell was he, and why was he making conversation with me? And why is he here in the supposed ghetto if he can afford designer watches?

…Well, he was cute, so who really cares? Nice eyes. Big, bright blue. But he's got to have died that hair. Nothing is redder than _that_ than a baboon's ass, and we all know they bleach that shit or something.

I groan at my stupid joke, still walking a bit aimlessly though I know exactly where I'm going as thoughts fly by.

I repeat: what the hell was that?

Alright, the best way to dissect a situation is the pro's and con's, right?

Con: "Tala" could be a raging pedophile. Could kill me. Could have been that asshole robber with the ski mask on who almost killed me, and he's coming back to finish the job. Could like rap music. Could make me pay for my own shit at Starbucks. Worst of all? Could be straight. That would really suck.

Plus side? He's not intellectually challenged, as he has "work" to get to, and he can afford Armani, which means he makes (I'm hoping) a good living. And, if he's willing to talk to possible seizure-having guys in the ghetto, he seems like a nice enough guy. Or a stupid enough guy. Whatever.

I sighed, remembering the guys back in the country I so fondly nicknamed Beaver-ville. I had a whole ass-load of friends back home, and a good social life to boot. Now, I'm surprised I can still spell "social". Which leads me to another plus: this would be a good opportunity to make a new friend. I'm pretty sure I'm getting no where with Hotty, anyways.

But still, I don't know what bus to take to get to god damned West Bend Avenue or whatever the crap it was called. And I really don't wanna dish out another three bucks to meet some guy that I… Wow, I'm cheap.

I absentmindedly realize I've reached my destination, and stare at it with a hard expression, contemplating, ignoring excuses.

After a ling while I groan in defeat, and throw my hands up in the hair. "Fine! I'll do it."

"Huh?" A guy walking by on the street stops and asks. Probably thinking I was talking to him since no one else is around.

I roll my eyes, in no mood to explain my insanity, and at the same time happy about making a new friend. Ecstatic, even. "Oh, fuck you." I say for the second time today, and half dance into the motel, with a big smile on my face.

"You have weird eyes for an Asian."

I roll said weird eyes, catching a glimpse of an expensive looking chandelier hanging above the table above us at the same time and mock his words from earlier today. "That's racist."

Tala smiles and counters with an amazing Asian accent. "Noh, dah cahmedee!"

I suddenly choke on my Mocha, and start coughing like a smoker. I thump a few times on my chest, heaving. When I swallow it all clears up and I start laughing my ass off.

"You want to warn me when you do that?" I say between laughs. After a few minutes of an emotionless glare from Tala, I cautiously taking another sip of my drink.

He suddenly smiles; holding the top of his cup to his lips and ignores my request. "I meant they're interesting. You don't really see light gold eyes on… your people."

"Thanks for the newsflash."

"Fuck off."

I laugh at his playful tone, and realize how much I miss male bonding. I press my forehead against the clean marble table and groan. "This sucks."

"Then you should have gotten the hazelnut."

"No, not the coffee, asshole. I meant my life."

I peer up at him with one eye only to catch him nod and take another sip of his drink. Tala's not quite the caring type. I roll back into my previous position, and my words come out a bit mumbled.

"How old are you, anyways?"

"Twenty-two."

"Huh, I thought twenty-five."

"You never answered my question." He changes the subject, sounding solemn.

I look up. "What question?"

"You're not from here, are you?"

I remember his question from earlier today when he repeats it, and I sigh. What the hell. What's another sad story for him to laugh about at night in his probably huge house on his huge kind size bed? "I'm from Canada."

He scoffs. "What are you doing here, then?"

I sit up properly and sigh again, hands supporting and covering my face. "It's a long story."

"I have time."

I remove my hands from my face and gaze around a bit, not comfortable enough to look into his eyes. "I got kicked out."

He sounds surprised. "For what? Not paying rent?"

"No, no, I lived with my parents."

Sadness seeps into his normally unemotional voice. "You're that young, huh?"

"No, I'm nineteen. I'm not-"

He shakes his head, interrupting me and getting back to the topic of interest. "Did you fail something in school?"

"…No."

I cut off, deciding not to say anymore, and hoping he's not the nosy types.

When I don't say anything else, he gets a bit pissy. "What then? Spit it out."

"Uh…"

"What?"

"I don't really know if I should-"

"Just tell me already!" He yells suddenly, looking like he was going to punch me in the face.

"They kicked me out because I'm gay!" I blurted out in the same tone.

He pauses, considering the information, then nods, completely calm, not missing a beat. "Makes sense."

"Oh, yeah, fucking perfect sense if your parents are sadists. Mine are far from it. I'm surprised you're not reacting like them, actually." I add conventionally, hoping to subtly get a sexual preference out of him. And hoping he doesn't notice how scared I am of his bat-shit mood swings.

He practically ignores my answer and asks his own question. "So why are you here then?"

I roll my eyes. It's kind of suspicious, like he's asking me questions as if he's giving me a job interview. Still, what a fucking stupid thing to ask. "Do you think I want the whole world to know that I'm gay? People don't take very kindly to fags, especially when you live in a Jesus-loving society."

He snorts. "Welcome to all of America, Ray."

I ignore him in a smooth way, just as he did to me. "I didn't want to have to deal with the whole social element and all the bullcrap that would ensue, so I left the country. It'll leak out, obviously, but as long as I'm not there to confirm it, it's just a rumor. Nothing more."

"Do you have any family here?"

"No, they're all in China. Who even lives in China anymore?" I complain.

"Around eight billion people?"

"Hey, fuck you." I say, not in the best of moods. A lack of sleep from a crappy ass cot can really make a guy go Mariah Carey.

He smirks, amused by my PMS. "How the hell did you get passed customs?"

I smile at the unexpected question and the memory. "Undersexed broad's shift when I got there. A smile, a wink, and the rest is history."

"I thought you were gay."

"I am," I assert. "But I'm also quite _charming_, Ivanov."

"Charming as whale lard, Kon."

"You're funny."

"I was a guest star on Frasier, actually."

"Ass."

He chuckles at my sudden insult and sets his cup down. He asks his next question in that same interview tone. "So if you don't have any family, where do you live?"

"Crappy-ass motel somewhere in the 'ghetto'." I do air quotes.

"Do you work?"

"I'm Canadian, remember? Unless you have a maple syrup factory somewhere in need of applicants, I'm unemployed."

He rolls his eyes, tired of the jokes, so I answer seriously.

"No, I don't. I'm qualified to be a research assistant in biological sciences, but I haven't seen a university the whole time I've been here."

"You mean the 48 hours you've been here."

"I'm tired." I say offhandedly, and yawn hugely. "Seriously, I sleep on some crappy little cot thing and risk my life by riding the elevator downstairs. And it smells weird. In the motel, I mean. And I'm really tired."

He looks at me for a second, as if contemplating something. I guess from the information he gathered, he seemed satisfied enough to come out with the reason he dragged me here for. "If you get a good paying job, give me a call. I'm looking for a new room mate."

My ears perked, and I suddenly felt energized. "Really? You're serious? Where do you live?"

"Columbus Circle."

I stare at him like he just spoke Farsi.

He runs a hand through his pet baboon's ass with frustration, and sighs. "You know, on the Upper East Side?"

"That sounds kind of classy. Is it like 90210 or something?"

"Aren't people going into medicine supposed to have an I.Q. above 10?" He snaps, irritated by my immaturity. Huh, I didn't take him for the anger-management type. _Har har._

"Well I don't fucking live here! I don't know…" I trail off when I replay his sentence in my head. "How'd you know I was going into medicine?"

"Most people don't study biology unless they're planning to cut people open in the future. Or are just masochistic." He scrunches up his face in distaste. Not a science lover, I see.

I change the subject. "So what do _you_ do?"

He shakes his hand, and presses his elbow vertically in an intimidating way onto the table, his hand supporting his face gently. "They're accepting new applicants at NYU. Their sister schools in France and Shanghai are advancing in all of their fields, while we're pretty much… the same. I think they'll take whatever they can get."

I purse my lips, considering the offer. "Does it pay well?"

"I'm pretty sure minimum wage for any student position there is 20 an hour."

My eyes widen in blissful shock. "Twenty _American_ dollars?"

"Of course twenty American dollars. This isn't Canadialand."

I scoff at the insult. "Dumb as poles, you Americans."

He once again ignores me, which he seems to be very good at doing. "So would you consider applying?"

"Well, I don't know." I say. "I don't really want… there'll be a lot of issues. I came here illegally, for Christ's sake. I don't have an American citizenship or anything of the likes."

"I can take care of that."

I stare at him incrementally. "What are you, my pimp?"

He ignores me. _Again._ "One of the admission officers there owes me. Big time. I don't think it'll be a problem."

"Why are you doing this for me?" I ask suddenly, my voice sounding small. "It's not that I don't appreciate it or anything, but we just met."

"I need to pay the rent."

I roll my eyes at his dismissive tone. "So why not find a rich asshole to pay up and shack up?"

"Rich assholes are assholes. I have experience with them." He says, sounding angry. I decide not to possibly get my ass handed to me by asking.

"Ah."

"I'll get you the appointment." He pauses before adding, "If you want."

I stop joking for a second and consider my options, which are pretty slim right now. A hundred- well, now eighty bucks is nothing. I'm going to need food, clothes, all the necessities, and I really can't make that happen without a good amount of money. And I'm not really digging the whole "sleepless-nights-plus-no-electricity" thing I've got going on.

So I smile at him and take what I can. "That would mean a lot to me."

He nods, and stands up, picking up a couple more shopping bags. "I'll see what I can do. Do you have a number I can call?"

I look at him like he's missing an incredibly obvious point.

"Oh, right, no electricity." He sets the bags down again, looks into a knapsack, and pulls out a little black leather day planner. "How about I give you a string and two tin cans and we'll work our way from there?"

"Funny," I mutter.

He flips through the little book, not stopping until he reaches the certain page he's looking for, and scans it before smiling sadistically.

"Well, what do you know? I'm free tomorrow. I'll have to call the university tonight. Meet me back here tomorrow at the same time, and I'll tell you whether you've got a future or not. All right?"

I nod a couple of times, looking like a bobble head. "Sure, sounds good."

He throws the planner back into his Gucci knapsack, picks up his shopping bags, and nods. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Sure. Fine. Great. See you." I say almost to myself, because he's walking out of store while I say it.

Then I kind of realize that I have a probably job application coming up tomorrow in America by illegal means, I didn't ask how much rent was to start with, and I don't really have a resume, or credentials, or even clothes to wear for the thing, for that matter.

God, what the hell have I gotten myself into?

* * *

Read _and_ Review, please.


	3. The One With the Job Interview

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Beyblade or anything else that brings in a sufficient amount of money, for that matter. What I do own is the story line and plot that go on in my story and the occasional OC, but that is all. I write for the sake of writing, and nothing more.

**Warning:** Language

**Author's Notes:** Read _Great Expectations_.

Now.

* * *

The One With the Job Interview

* * *

"You're a _translator_? That's it? You know, there are websites that can do that for free."

Tala rolls his ice blue eyes and deeply inhales on his straw, swallows his coke, then talks, like he's repeated said speech a million times. "I speak 12 different languages fluently, including every major trade language; German, English, Acadian and Canadian French, Spanish and Russian. I can read and write all of my 12 spoken languages with clarity and precision, and have a very minimal trace of an accent when I speak."

"I've been studying diversity and languages for 4 years, and I translate for ambassadors, presidents, monarchies, and many more people of high social or financial status."

He snaps his fingers like he just remembered something, and adds, "Right, and I speak 4 other languages ineffectively, but well enough."

He finishes by taking an intimidating sip of his coke, challenging me with his eyes.

"…I know how to say "bread" in Italian."

"Pane." He answers.

"Hey! How'd you know?"

He looks at me like he's about to whack me with a copy of "Dummies Guide to Listening".

"I'm kidding. Jesus."

"You're not very funny, Kon."

"You scare the shit out of me, Ivanov."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

The elevator doors swing open and he walks out like he doesn't have a clueless teenager relying on his every step. I quickly pick up speed and walk beside him, looking around me.

"This is kind of like déjà vu," I say.

"Hmm?" He asks, like I pulled him out of a train of thought.

"Déjà vu. It seems really familiar."

"Well, most universities have the same basic structural outline. Classroom there, other classroom there. It probably reminds you of your university back in Canada."

I shrug, not caring enough to force myself back to those memories. "Maybe."

We walk for two more minutes in silence, when Tala reaches a door that looks like all the rest of them, then looks at me.

"Good luck."

I nod, unsure of myself. "Thanks."

He checks his Swiss Army watch. "I'll meet you at the café downstairs in an hour. It shouldn't take longer than that."

"Sure, sure." I say at the same time I knock on the door. Before I even get to the third knock, the door _shwoops_ open.

"Mr. Kon, I presume?"

Tala must have tipped him off. "You presume right."

He smiles then opens the door. "Come on in." Then he walks inside.

I nod and step back, letting Tala go in first. Except when I look to my side, he's gone. Seriously. It's like he just popped a tile on the floor and crawled out or something.

I look around, bewildered. I didn't _feel_ him go away. Then I look up at the ceiling, hoping to see a rope or something dangling from a loosened corkboard, but find nothing of the sort. What the fuck? He just disappeared!

"Tala?" I whisper. "Where'd you go?"

"Pardon?" I hear what's his face ask from inside the room.

"Nothing."

"You can come inside, Mr. Kon." He reminds me.

I nod, and take a deep breathe before most likely blowing everything. "Right."

I walk into what looks like a ditched teacher conference room, and take a seat across from Professor Nerdy. The room is pretty cold, so I wrap my arms around myself. Lucky bastard has a lab coat.

"It's nice to meet a willing applicant. Most kids willing to assist in biological studies are off in hospitals, getting paid twice as much as they would have here."

_Twice as much? What? You can do that?_ "No, no. I'd rather work in a university. Less… clean. And cold. It has more of a heart, you know?" I lie, trying to sound convincing.

He nods happily, understanding completely. "I know exactly what you mean. So soulless. Someone dies in the next room over and no one even blinks."

For the first time since I've walked in, I take a good, long look at my possible employer-to-be. His comb over nicely accentuates the oil stain on his corny lime coloured tie, being that it matches his hair colour.

I grimace a little when I notice he's wearing lime green on top of violet, and rub my eyes. I'm not your average fashion loving fag, but my common sense is in enough of a healthy state that I know not to proudly display bright colour on bright colour out into public. Correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't that plus movement (from bouncing off a science nerd's chest, for example) cause seizures?

"Which is why I'd love to be accepted here," I prompt, getting back to the topic.

"I don't think that will be a problem. We're… quite desperate."

"So I've heard."

He smiles shyly, for some reason pleased that I know he's failing at his job.

"So," He starts, twisting and untwisting his hands. Obviously not used to not holding a resume of some kind. "Mr. Ivanov tells me you're a Biology student?"

I smile and put on my most charming smile and politest voice. "Well, not only Biology. I was also studying in Food Sciences, Chemistry, Space, and Physics."

"Ah," he says, seeming pleased. "A fellow lover of the sciences?"

_Durrrp._ "Of course." I answer, like me having the minimal interest in any other topic was out of the question.

"Very good," He murmurs under his breath. He takes off his glasses and starts wiping them with his shirt end. "If I may be so bold, may I ask where were you studying?"

Uh oh. Didn't Tala tell the guy I live in an igloo? I swallow before saying, "The University of Toronto."

He stops polishing his glasses and freezes, like I just spoke complete gibberish. Then he nods slightly and continues.

"Right, right. Mr. Ivanov told me about your… situation."

Mr. Ivanov? What the hell? This guy is old enough to be my dad. Why is a socially inept forty year old calling a cocky twenty-one year old "_mister_"? I think _jackass_ would suit him much better.

"Yeah, that's kind of why I don't have any transcripts or referrals… or a resume." I point to his empty hands then smile apologetically. "Sorry."

"Not at all, Mr. Ivanov has contributed significantly to NYU. It's the least we can do."

"Uh huh," I say. _Contributed significantly?_ What the hell did Tala _do_? Win Miss America and donate his tiara to the place?

I was starting to get suspicious when what's-his-face spoke, catching me off guard with his serious tone. "Never, in my 14 years of working here, or anywhere for that matter, have I ever hired or worked with an employee who did not have the proper accommodations to get to his or her job."

He pauses before adding, "You're very luck to know Mr. Ivanov."

"I know," I say, realizing the truth of his words.

"So, if you slip up, commit a crime or anything else that would involve higher authorities than myself taking a look at your I.D. or passport or anything of the sort, you _and_ I would have our tails on the line. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

I put on the phony smile and a reassuring tone. "Don't worry about it. I vow on my grandmother's grave, I am not a bad person. I haven't even gotten a speeding ticket before. I'm sure I'll be fine."

He looks at me with a hard expression, and then he nods. "Alright."

"Okay." I say.

He nods again, obviously having more to say. "I think-" He gets cut off when his phone rings loudly, and then I get the sudden urge to jump on him, grab the phone and return it to the nearest lost and found.

Get a grip. It's the "rich" side of town. You saw the shops and not-dead people and the BMWs cruising the not-crap covered streets this morning with Tala. I'm sure this guy bought the phone legally. Not everyone you know should be associated with bums and dead guys and hobos and Tala.

I pay attention to him on the phone, saying "uh huh" every now and then. I sigh. I should ask Tala his name. Kind of hard to work for a man without knowing his name.

He snaps the flip phone closes, and stands up a little too quickly, smiling. "You're hired."

_HELL YES!_ "Seriously?"

He nods, still smiling.

I stand up, happy as hell, but I can't afford to look like a dumbass in front of him, so I keep my cool. "Don't you wanna ask anymore questions? Like my _first name_ for example?"

He laughs, instead of finding that rude like 90 percent of the old people population would have. "No, _Raymond_. I'm already well aware of it."

"Oh. Cool, sweet. I mean, that's great." I let go of my huge smile and laugh in relief. "Thanks so much. You don't know how much this means to me."

"Well, I'd love to stand here and accept your praise, Mr. Kon, but I have a meeting to attend."

Oh. Probably what the phone call was about. Also why he gave me the job so fast. "Alright, sure." I say. I bend down to pick up a bag reflexively, but realize I had nothing with me when I came in, then stand back up. He cocks an eyebrow.

"Be here Wednesday morning, nine o'clock sharp."

"Okay. Can do."

He nods, waiting for me to leave.

"Well, bye." I say awkwardly and hightail it out of there.

I run fast down the stairs, ignoring the elevator option, and then bolt into the café built into the university. I wonder if I'm too early, but then I see Tala sitting at a table finishing off a buttered roll.

I run over, smiling meteors at Tala, and whip out one of the weirdest languages I've heard of. "Hey Tala, how do you say "I've got a job" in Iranian?"

"Mmm, "_Man kar daram_"?"

"Mhaykahdooroom!" I yell, pronouncing it really wrong, but too happy to care.

He ignores my announcement and picks up a menu. "Congratulations for ruining one of the most ancient languages ever spoken by man, Kon."

I sit down, still beaming. "Thanks! I know! It's great. Now I can afford shoelaces."

He smiles at that, and continues on my announcement. "So you got the job?"

"Yeah, man! Come on, try and keep up."

"You look like you won the lottery, Kon. Calm down."

"Fuck you!" I smile hugely; feeling great, then look at my menu with excitement.

He laughs.

"What are you ordering?" He asks after a while.

I cock an eyebrow at that, surprised that he isn't asking me more about the job, and also that he gives a rat's ass. Tala would care about a dead pigeon on the road sooner than he would care about me. "Nothing, really. I want Starbucks."

He smirks a bit and sets down his menu. "You have a job now. You can afford to buy something that's more than five _American_ dollars."

I smile at the stress he put on the word. "Har, har. I'm really not hungry. I'll probably just eat some rolls or something."

He shrugs. "Suit yourself."

"Hey, Tala?"

He nods at me. A signal to continue.

"How do you say…'you're ugly' in Bulgarian?"

He rolls his eyes. "I don't know. Choose the most unknown language in the world and then ask me to translate, Ray. That'll really get you results."

"Hey, Tala? How do you say 'someone's PMS-ing' in English? Oh, wait. I already said it, you douche."

He smirks then, getting some ingenious idea. "_Vous êtes un âne_."

"No, _you're_ an ass. I took French all four years, I know what it-"

"_É um como_."

"I'm a homo?" I ask, sounding like a stupid teenage girl. "What is that, anyways? Spanish?"

"_Het is Portugees, u mislukking_."

"Just speak English, for Christ's sake." I say rubbing my forehead. He's speaking some random white language now. Swedish or something. I picked out 'Portuguese', though. Must have been the last language.

He smiles, amused by my frustration, and switches back to English. "Maybe you should get a _website_ to translate for you, Ray. It _obviously_ has the same abilities as me."

"Has anyone ever told you you're a douche before?" I inquire.

"Yes, five minutes ago actually. By some underage Chinese kid that can't even touch his own toes. Didn't take it too seriously."

"You know how you say douche in Russian?" I ask, interrupting him. He frowns and opens his mouth to speak, when I answer. "_Borsht_."

He closes his mouth and eyes slowly in agitation of his (probably) native language being insulted. "That's a type of _soup_."

"Is it really?"

"You knew it was."

"Hm. Did I?"

"I'm going to kick you in the nuts."

His words came out in a completely menacing tone, while his face was exceptionally calm and placid, as if he was listening to Mozart.

Naturally, that made me laugh my ass off.

"What the hell is so funny?" Tala asks, annoyed.

"You! You should have… seen your face… oh, God." I say in between laughs, still hooting with laughter.

He sighs. "I've suddenly lost my appetite."

I'm still laughing.

He gets up, annoyed, but the corners of his lips tremble. Laughter is contagious, after all. "I'll see you later."

"Later," I agree, still chuckling.

* * *

I enter my empty and familiar Starbucks, and I look pretty out of place. I've got these nice dress pants on, a long red tie, and this swanky ass dress shirt that feels like sex against my chest while I walk up to Hotty's counter. Damn it, I forgot to thank Tala for the clothes.

"Hello," he says. "How may I help you?"

"Uh," I stammer. I'm in the mood for something strong. "I'll have an Irish Scream."

"Cream," he corrects, sounding frustrated.

"Cream?" I say. I lift my eyebrows in a pervert like fashion, traces of my good mood still around.

Murderous glare number three to add to the total three day collection.

I pout. For some reason that look makes me really mad. "Oh, f-"

"Yeah, fuck me. Thanks, Mr. Original."

I hide the grimace that's threatening to form. That's the first snarky response I've gotten from him since the first day I stalked him. I'm surprised he's not fired yet. Screw his looks. If he's going to provoke my inner bastard, I'm not holding it back.

"Someone's bitter," I mumble loud enough for him to hear.

The short coffee girl hands him my drink and then he hands it to me. "And someone's coffee is ready. Here you are."

I scoff and grab my cup angrily from his hands. I start walking, towards the exit, testing the temperature of the drink with my lips. Then I take a small sip of my drink and wrinkle my nose. It's good, but not what I wanted.

I walk back to the empty line and wave my cup bitchily in front of his face. "This isn't what I ordered. "

"What?" He peers inside the cup, and then groans. "Maggie! I asked for an Irish Cream! You gave me a Brazilian."

"I did?" I hear a girl yelling from a wall behind the service counter.

"Yes, you did, genius. Mind making me what I asked for?"

"Okay! Just give me a second! Jesus."

He exaggerates his eye roll like a bitch not getting the exact right shade of double-zero navy blue jeans in Hollister. "Fine."

What a fucking dick. I put on my best 'manly-pissed-off-look' and wait for my coffee with a grimace.

He does the exact same.

A few minutes tick by, and I still don't have a nice, overpriced and ugly cup of Starshmucks in my hand. The inner caffeine addict in me is pretty much rocking back and forth, sucking his/her/its (?) thumb from the withdrawal.

"Is it done yet?" I ask. I sound pissy as hell.

"Is the coffee in your hand?" He mirrors my tone. "No. So wait."

"Dick," I mumble under my breath.

He clicks his tongue, most likely not allowed to smash the forehead of customer's into the marble countertop.

Is it weird that I have this sudden urge to roundhouse kick him into the next state?

"Here," Probably Maggie pops out of the back and says, handing Hott-_Assy_ my coffee.

"Take it," Assy almost growls. He swings the cup across the countertop, only stopping when it bumps against my elbow.

I grab it and leave without saying a word.

* * *

My hands slides carefully onto the second level's middle card, trying to keep down the pre-bent condition of it. Damn fifty-five cent cards. A guy can't even invest in something cheap anymore without being disappointed.

A ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of my lips a when I angle the seven of clubs perfectly onto the queen of spades. Very carefully, I move my hand away, then drop it to my side and sigh loudly.

I've got candles going all around the room, providing some (primitive) form of light. Thankfully, it's not a threat to my health to merely walk in my room anymore. I can now at least see the cards I'm making a pyramid out of _and_ the cause of the bruise on my knee (which is the size of Santa's ass) without having to physically harm myself to find it.

My cot.

You know, every time I lay down on it, I think I hear the distant sound of a new born baby dying.

It's this lumpy piece of crap that's as thick as your average eyelash, and it smells like a non-house trained animal came and sat on it after eating a couple of burritos. Repeatedly.

I grab another card. My head tilts when I try to think of a smart way to get this next one onto the pyramid without crushing an hour's work, when I hear a weird muffled noise coming parallel from me. I ignore it and sigh loudly.

Well, besides the crappy cot, and the crappy motel, and the crappy state, and the crappy bus fairs and the crappy Russians offering me once in a lifetime jobs, everything's not _too_ horrible. Yeah, things do pretty much suck balls right now, but at least it's not Chris Crocker Balls. You never know where that shit's been.

Why have I changed my mind, you ask? Well, having a nineteen year old reduced to making a card pyramid for the past one or two hours gets said nineteen year old thinking. You have to admit, for a runaway fag, I've done pretty well so far.

Point of Joy number one? I made a new friend. Well, not technically a friend, but some…one I recognize and make a mental note of 'Hello' to everyday.

I'm sure you remember that partially decomposed dead body strewn down the street on the bus route I take to Starshmucks everyday? I have rightfully named him Slolin, after two inspirations: my favourite comedian, Colin Mochrie, and the verb, slump; to loose specific shape of body after long bouts of rigid posture or disuse of muscles. Slolin completely and totally completes both specified fields of what he's named after: one, he's slumpy, and two: he's downright hilarious. Ever continuously poked a dead body with an empty coffee cup to make sure if the guy's dead or not? Hours and hours of wholesome family fun.

Point of Joy two: America is currently in an economic crisis. Someone break out the champagne. Huzzah!

I reach out and start testing different angles for the same card in front of the pyramid. Another muffled noise comes from outside of my room. Probably the receptionist checking up on the old lady with arthritis the next door down. Or someone getting shot. Both happen pretty frequently.

Point of Joy three: I no longer have a crush on the pale douche who I have re-nicknamed Assy, for obvious ass-like reasons. Some of you might take that as a bad thing, since in your mind true love lasts forever and it rains Hershey Kisses once every two weeks. But, in the real world this news comes as fan-fucking-tastickly to me as a new type of mystical pizza sauce comes to an Italian.

The bottom left edge of the card is touching the rest of the pyramid. I bite my tongue, trying not to laugh at my childish success. If I keep it at this degree, it wouldn't even fall over if a hurricane blew through the room. I press the opposite right corner on gently, ready to let go, when a boom as loud as fucking Dane Cook vibrates through the near silent room. I twitch at the sound, causing me to slightly nudge my current card, and then I find all the twenty-four cards I had successfully twined together on a fresh pile at the bottom of the board I was working on.

"God fucking _damn it!_"

The boom sound comes again, and I realize it's someone pounding against the door with the force of a fucking fat chick on red bull.

"Go away!" I yell.

Another three booms.

"For fuck's sake," I grumble.

I walk over to the decapitated door and undo the three locks and a deadbolt, then swing the door open.

I groan dramatically when I am greeted by the familiar baboon's ass at the door.

"Oh, fuck off. I just saw you two hours ago."

"I forgot to tell you something." Tala responds, squeezes his way through me and the door _somehow_ gracefully, and lets himself in.

"Couldn't this wait until… later?"

"I suppose it could. But it was on my mind _now_." He takes a look around the room, and his mouth twists in disgusts. "You pay to live in this cave?"

"No." I say, sounding like a toddler. I push my way past him and sit down on my cot, and pick up the _once was_ masterpiece. "You ruined my card pyramid."

"Wonderful. Listen," He says, sitting down a normal space from me on the lanky mattress while I put all the cards back in a pile. "You haven't gone to go check the street I told you I lived on, have you?"

"Uh, no. I can barely afford these"-I slam the elastic-bound cards onto the bed- "let alone pay up for extra bus fair." I pause. "Why?"

"Hm. No reason."

My bullshit detector just exploded.

"…What did you do, Tala?"

He eyes me, and for the first time as long as I've known him (a day or so), Tala looks _defeated_.

"Nothing."

"Oh, man. Are _you_ a hobo too? Did you steal those clothes?"

"No, you moron. Nothing of the sort." He practically spits, insulted.

"Then why'd you-"

"Shut up," He says suddenly. After a while he looks into my eyes. "I lied."

"…About what? Not needing a roommate?"

"No, about the exact area of where I lived."

I cock my eyebrow in confusion. "Why would you do that?"

"Well, for god's sake, I didn't know you," He says, sounding like he's been planning to use this line for weeks. "How should I know if you were who you claimed to be?"

"I claimed to be a runaway fag, Tala. Not a serial killer."

Surprise, surprise. He ignores me. "And how would I have been able to know you're a good person? Someone I could trust with my home? I've been through this mistake one too many times, and I refuse to repeat it. I'd rather have someone who I can tolerate and may possibly have a slight financial problem than some bastard that can buy all of Manhattan yet happens to have a personality as shining and interesting as a piece of wet toast."

"It's happened before? What's happened before?" I ask, frustrated by his rant. "Slow down. I don't get what's going on."

"Let's just say I've had a couple dozen roommates on the… higher end of the food chain who deserve to be on the lower."

"Ah."

"I don't think it will happen again, though," He murmurs, almost as if he were talking to himself. He looks me up and down, then at the wall he's facing. "I hope not."

I frown at the turn the conversation has taken. Time to bring out the giggles. "I wouldn't do that, Tala. I'm not cocky or confident enough in my ninja abilities to be able to screw over a Russian. That's like _asking_ to have your ass handed to you on a silver, vodka-coated platter."

He laughs.

"I know you wouldn't. You're not rich."

"Thanks, Tala." I say sarcastically.

He shakes his head, serious. "It's good that you're not, in a sense. Money sucks away your character, your soul, and your brain. All you have left is your diluted sense of greed-led personality and the people who kiss your ass for it."

I consider that for a second before I draw an obvious conclusion. "You really hate rich people, don't you?"

He shrugs, not willing to give up anymore information.

Weird. This doesn't make any sense. I may seem like an idiot that carries a cup around all the time just to catch stray drool into it, but my inner Asian Knowledge is sensing something off here. Tala went to the lengths of making calls, paying for meals, assisting me with bus schedules, visiting me at home, and breaking the law just to have a non-douchey roommate? It's called investing in a _Roommate Wanted_ ad, not scouring the ghetto of the state for a seemingly mentally incapable candidate. There is something more than meets the eye going on here…

"So," he starts in a lighter tone, "Did something die in here or is that just the air freshener?"

* * *

Read_ and _review, please.


	4. The One Where He Moves In

**Author:** Neiize

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Beyblade or anything else that brings in a sufficient amount of money, for that matter. What I do own is the story line and plot that go on in my story and the occasional OC, but that is all. I write for the sake of writing, and nothing more.

**Warning:** None

**Author's Note:** Long time to update, I know. I apologize. If it helps, this chapter took up my whole weekend, so I basically had no social life for 2 days straight. The only reason I even remembered to update this was two review alerts I received a couple of days ago which subtly reminded my lazy ass to get up and update.

Speaking of review alerts, thank you _Sukiyomi_ and _YaoiGoddessNekoJin_ for reminding my lazy ass to try and get past the writer's block and post.

And, speaking of posts, I've got about 3 new story ideas in mind. If you generally like my style of writing (and if you do, you should get out more) then put me on author alert and go check 'em out when they're up. Critique is something I love much, much, much more than meaningless compliments, so drop them by on anything new, or for that matter old, on anything I post/ have posted.

Super special thank you to _TheFallenangel927_ for more than enough help. Seriously, you're much too kind. This chapter's dedicated to you.

Finally, the song Ray sings is _Not Giving Up_ by The Crash Motive, formally known as Omnisoul. He's a _huge_ videogame fan, and the song was featured on Madden NFL '07.

* * *

The One Where He Moves In

* * *

I stare nervously at the institutionalized looking door, sweating the shit out of my shirt. God, what the hell am I even doing here? I barely remember any of the researching tactics I'm supposed to know by default, and they've assigned me to Genetics and Chromosomal Patent research. My specialty is in Internal and Nervous systems.

What that basically means is that I know what happens when a person with O negative type blood is given AB positive. What that doesn't mean is that I can poke through a penis for scientific measures.

I grimace at the information packet Tala dropped off yesterday, and stuff it back into my lab coat pocket, also dropped off by Tala. Speaking of Tala: he's an ass. Also confusing. Treating me like garbage, yet also supplying said garbage with all the necessities to succeed in the McAmerican lifestyle.

I refocus on the door in front of me, feeling the need to rock back and forth with my thumb in my mouth. I can't do this, I can't. This is my first job… ever, and I'm feeling really fucking overwhelmed. Like someone dropped Rob Reiner onto my shoulders, this is way too much to handle.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Remember what Tala told you…

_Start Flashback_

_"First point on the first day on the job," he pauses to take a bite out of his scone, "don't be a douche."_

_"Well, that's specific."_

_"Don't talk back, don't question your boss's authority, don't speak like an uneducated moron… and since you're Canadian, don't add "eh" to every other sentence. It gets tedious."_

_"Har har."  
_  
_"I'm being serious. All this is important to note. If you make a bad first impression, the earlier they'll fire you. It saves them more money."_

_"That's pretty obvious shit. I meant stuff like the tiny details."_

_He cocks a blinding red eyebrow. "What do you mean?"_

_"Like, how do I know if he's giving me a ton of extra work for no extra pay just 'cause he knows I know nothing?"_

_He dismisses the question with an eye roll. "Listen, NYU isn't known as a prestigious secondary education center because the professors are cheap buffoons. Don't worry about that stuff. Worry about what I told you."_

_"I don't understand what you're telling me."_

_He sighs dramatically and puts his scone back down on his plate. "You're lucky we're in public, or else I'd be liable to kill you for your stupidity. Be nice. That's about it. The polar opposite of 'don't be a douche' is 'be nice'."_

_"Nice? That's it?"_

_"Yes."_

_I consider that a moment before taking a sip of my Brazilian. "Well, hot damn. How the hell did Donald Trump get to the top if that's it?"  
_  
_End Flashback_

I knock three times on the door, and then swear. What the hell is the thing made out of, Superman's titanium chest? I rub my sore knuckles then look up when the door whooshes open.

Mr. Langstaff stands in the doorframe (yeah, Tala told me his name) while sporting a teal green tie and crimson coloured shirt. This guy's just a walking lawsuit, isn't he?

He frowns. "You're a little late."

Because everyone knows the best way to greet your intimidated new employee is to remind them that they were 3 seconds off schedule.

"Yeah, I'm sorry," I apologize, pulling off an amazing "look-how-bashful-and-cute-I-am" act. "Just got a little lost. These streets, they're all just numbers in New York. It gets a little confusing."

He assesses me for a second before waving off whatever doubts he had about my story. "Come on in." And he leaves the door wide open.

I walk in, and jut to a stop. Nostalgia hits me as hard as Michael Phelps swimming towards his next paycheck. The familiar chemicals, the lab stations, even the colour of the marble countertops remind me of U of T, back home.

I groan the thoughts away and follow his lead, looking around at not only my future environment, but my future colleagues, or as I have decided to nickname them, my future butt buddies. Since we'll be in each other's asses all the time, I find it pretty damn appropriate.

So when scanning said butt buddies' faces, my thoughts range from _"Holy crap, he's as old as the Tahj Mahal,"_ to _"Ew, he has a booger in his right nostril," _and to finally, _"Wow, another Asian in Jesusland!" _as I keep following Mr. Seizure down the huge Lab Hall.

Then Mr. Seizure stops at a medium sized lab station, complete with 800x magnification electron-splitting microscope, and the basic instruments, like a scalpel and tweezers. Then I spot the Giemsa staining lubricant, and smirk. I feel sorry for the bastard that….

You know, if he had a reason to stare at me so expectantly like that, this would be socially acceptable. Since he doesn't, I'm kind of considering switching up Mr. Seizure's appointed name to Mr. Pedo.

Then he clears his throat.

"Oh," I murmur under my breath, and then frown like I just saw a picture of George Bush naked. Whenever I realize something, it hits like an obese school bus.

Well hello there Ray, you bastard, you.

I recover and forcibly smile. "Am I karyotyping today?"

If you guys don't know what karyotyping is, it's basically taking some asshole's white blood cells and extracting DNA from it, more specifically the 22 different human autosomes (chromosomes) and the two sex cells. Fun as it may sound, it's a grueling process; you have to stain in a very picky process, have to magnify about a million times up to catch anything, and then it takes about a couple of days to identify and name each chromosome. Then you have the fun of printing them out, cutting them up, and sticking them on a Bristol board, like a three year old pasting the letters of the alphabet in a straight line.

Excuse me while I go ninja.

"That you are. I hope you don't mind," he adds when he catches the stress lines digging a hole into my forehead.

"No, it's fine." I can almost feel the flames engulfing my lying pants on fire.

He frowns, unconvinced. "I don't have to re-explain the process to you, do I? I'm sure-"

"No, of course not." I wave him off with a floppy wrist. "It's incredibly basic. I can handle this alone."

"Well, I hope not. You'll be working with a partner, you know. He'll be your co-worker for the rest of the year, at least. "

Whoop de fucking doo. Another American douche bag to breathe down my neck and ask for free maple syrup samples.

"He should be here shortly. Actually, he should have been here an hour ago," he says while absently glancing over at his watch. "You should start now, and then he'll show up right here at this lab station and help you. He's usually late, anyways."

"Alright. Not a problem."

And then I smile. And then he's off, at the same time calling someone else over.

Somewhere far, far away, I think I just heard the vengeful screams of fifty Russians having their Smirnoff taken away from them.

This is almost as angry as I am right now. I absolutely loathe karyotyping. You know, after the first time, it's a cool experience; and the codings in your body that make sure everything runs smoothly. After the fifth or sixth, it just gets really fucking stupid. One time I was seriously considering digging my eyes out with my scalpel to save myself from the torture, then decided I couldn't ogle hot guys anymore, and thought against it. But I was _this close_.

I sigh and pick a packet (whoa, try saying _that_ ten times fast) of blood and absentmindedly note the O negative typing, and pour it delicately into a centrifuge. The nozzle twists, and I watch the separating of the plasma, red blood cells, and white blood cells into three visibly different parts through the test tubes on either side.

I sing under my breath while separating the 3 major blood parts. _"Make a spark, and keep it safe, remember not to give away…"  
_  
While I try to transfer the white blood cells only into a separate test tube, my peripheral vision kicks in and I notice some blonde broad not-so-subtly checking out my ass. I wonder what she looks like.

I swoop around suddenly, acting as if I dropped something, and her head suddenly snaps back to her work like someone had chopped her in the neck. I almost got whiplash from that fucking snap. One word: _smooth_.

I think she's got kind of a big nose. Not sure though. I'm on my hands and knees, looking for something beyond me on the tiled ground. I glance up quickly, focusing on her. Whoa, has this bitch never heard of a root touch up?

I stop my train of thought suddenly, and then sigh.

Dude, I'm _so_ gay. Literally.

I'm about to rinse my hands off in the sink when a dash of baboon's ass just comes assaulting my eyesight by stepping into my vision, and I groan dramatically. I look back down, trying to ignore him while grabbing the Giemsa and staining the white blood cells I extracted.

"First you drop into my cave with no notice, and now my _job_, too, Tala?"

"People still live in caves this century?"

My eyebrows furrow together in confusion when I register the unfamiliar voice's response, and my head shoots up almost as fast as the blonde whore's did. I find myself staring at bright, blue eyes. Except they're not icy, but smoky and warm, like his voice. His baboon's ass isn't technically ass, more like a diluted pumpkin-y colour. For a second I consider Tala getting contacts and a dye job, when I realize it's some non-Russian staring at my face with a perplexed yet amused expression.

Let me draw it out for you.

Not Russian equals not Tala.

"Oh, shit." I say.

He laughs.

"Sorry. I thought you were a friend of mine." I apologize, rubbing my temporal lobe. I should really get out more. Not every white person I know is Tala.

"Is that how you treat all your friends?"

"He's not really a friend. More of a douche." Pause. "Wait, who the hell are you?"

"If you're Ray Kon, I'm your genetics partner for the next year or so." He places his briefcase on the floor and then holds out a hand. "Brooklyn Masefield."

I return the gesture. "Ray Kon. But you already know that." It sounds more like a question.

He smiles, kneels down, and then opens a cabinet in the station and sticks his briefcase in. "I was debriefed earlier."

"Hm."

"Fine young man," he imitated, doing a great Mr. Pedo, " has his priorities straight. Nice, a little dizzy, but nice."

"Dizzy?" I asked with a stupid grin. "What's that supposed to mean? Do I look like I just stepped off a roller coaster?"

He pulls out two pairs of goggles and pulls one over his head and onto his eyes. "Don't ask me. Personally, I think the guy's insane."

"He's…" I scramble my mind, looking for an incriminating but appropriate word for my boss. "… quirky."

"That's what they called baby Hitler."

My eyes widen and I laugh without even thinking about it.

"Oh man, you'll get fired if he hears that."

"Everyone thinks that. No one just says it in front of him." He hands me the other set of goggles and closes the cabinet. Damn, I always forget to wear those things.

He shoots up and wipes his hands on his lab coat. His blue eyes quickly skim over the station, and then spot the Giemsa. "Karyotyping?"

I frown. "Yup."

He catches my forlorn expression and chuckles. "Not a fan?"

He scans the whole area again, like he was looking for something. I watch him while I respond. "No, not really."

After a bout of incessant scanning form his end, he finally speaks. "Uh," he says, sounding confused, "what do we do next?"

I respond automatically. "Fix the sample, stain it, and spread it on a microscope slide."

Yes, I may seem like an asshole that can't even touch his own elbows without crashing into his arm 50 times without realizing he can just _go around_ the arm, but I'm actually pretty damn smart.

"Right, right."

While he starts positioning it exactly in the center of a slide, my eyes start to wander. "What are we going to do after this?"

"Clean up and then run a few patent tests."

My eyebrows furrow together in the middle, and I find myself at a loss for words.

After the ten seconds of silence, I notice Brooklyn has the same expression on his face as he speaks. "You okay?"

"Doesn't this take at least _three_ _days_ to finish?"

He chuckles.

Me thinks he doesn't understand that I'm about to hyperventilate here.

"I'm being serious."

His expression drops, and he answers me as he begins to stain the sample with Giemsa. "You've done most of the work already. After this all we have to do is pop it into the microscope and the computer does the rest of the work for us."

My jaw goes slack. "_Computer?_"

He nods slowly, as if in the past minute my I.Q. had suddenly dropped fifty points. "Uh huh."

"Don't we have to arrange them ourselves and then name them and then…" I trail off when I catch Brooklyn finally taking his eyes off the slide to stare at me with a questioning expression.

"We're in the 21st century, here. We don't need to waste work hours that way anymore."

"You didn't even do it during your first four years?"

He looks beyond confused. "No, never. The computer does it all."

I tilt my head slightly as he begins to align the slide into God's solution to bullshit, the microscope. "Wow. They made us do it all by hand at my university."

His head shoots up suddenly and he stares at me, near shock. "By hand? Sweet Jesus. That's scientific suicide."

"You're telling me."

"Where did you go to study?" By now he's watching the specimen through an LED screen.

"U of T."

"Never heard of it." He realigns the slide.

"The University of Toronto."

He seems slightly amused by my answer. "You're from Canada?"

"Yup."

"I've always wanted to live there."

_"Really?"_

He suddenly starts laughing, probably because I reacted like he had told me that he had a third nipple. "Yes, _really_."

"Why?"

"It's just a better place to live. Less crime, not very crowded, universal healthcare, no SAT's." He shivers involuntarily. "Damn test almost killed me."

Huh. Every other person I've talked to that's from here (Tala) has shown a great distaste for the beaver-filled land I call my home.

"Brooklyn?"

"Yes?"

I hesitate for a minute. If I make the step of getting to know him, we could become very good friends. He reminds me of a couple of my close friends from back home, and a few American friends of the same title wouldn't be so bad, either. And to be quite frank, if Tala ends up being my only friend in Jesusland by the end of all this, I'm going to be really damn tempted to ship myself in a large box to the White House with "Weapons of Mass Destruction" smeared in bold on the front. Being bombed is a peaceful way to go, I'm told.

He looks at me expectantly.

"Rock or rap?"

"Hmmm," he ponders for a moment. "Rock."

I smile.

This is the start of a beautiful friendship.

* * *

"North from here is The Village, and NoHo."

"So that's the opposite of where we are, because here is SoHo, and that stands for South of Houston, right?"

"Exactly."

I shift in the extremely comfortable bar stool I'm in, and watch Tala as he grabs two bottles of Corona from the perfectly polished stainless-steel refrigerator and hands one to me.

"East is Little Italy, and then north of _that_ is Nolita. And then there's the Lower East Side. The place I told you I lived when I met you, West End Avenue? That's in the Lower East." He's fiddling with the little T.V. on the door of the fridge.

"Okay, go on."

"And south is Chinatown," he pauses to smile and narrow his eyes at me, which causes me to punch him in the arm, "and TriBeCa. That stands for **Tri**angle **Be**neath **Ca**nalStreet."

"And Canal Street is all business and stuff, right?"

"Right. My company's office is there."

"What else?"

"Nothing, really. Those are the basics."

I take a long drag from my beer. "What about bus route? I have to get from here to NYU tomorrow morning."

"Walk three or four blocks north from here and catch the 21. Then get a transfer to the 5. It stops directly in front of NYU."

I stare at him like he just suddenly morphed into an anaconda and jumped out a window.

"I'll walk you through it the first time."

I sigh in relief. "Thank God."

He nods, and then eyes the (at least) 60 inch T.V. in the corner of the living room, which is visible from the large door-less entry way. I decide to interrupt before he goes in for the kill.

"My friend told me something."

"I tell you many things."

"Not you," I say childishly and take another sip of my beer, missing the irony. "Brooklyn, a guy from work. I told him I lived in NoHo, and his eyes popped out of his sockets."

He rolls his eyes and exaggerates his speech. "Is that so?"

"Do you know how _hard_ it is reattaching a person's retina with nothing but a microscope slide? Like getting Aretha Franklin to put down her bucket of KFC."

He sighs, used to my offensive comments. "What are you getting at, Kon?"

"He told me that rent usually runs around $15,000 a month. A _month_."

He shrugs. "Money is disposable."

"And I'm Asian. Stop stating the obvious."

"It's not like I can't afford it."

"It's not like I _can_ afford it."

"All I'm planning to do with your 'rent' is pay the electricity bill."

I double take at him, and then gape slightly. "What? That's _it_?"

"You certainly can't afford five grand a month."

I set my beer down and narrow my eyes into slits. "You said I would be paying rent, not some measly-"

"The electric bill is part of rent." He countered, bored.

I watched as he finished off the remains of his bottle and went to grab another one. "You lied to me."

"No, I was just non-specific with my wording."

"If I knew you didn't even need me, I wouldn't have even considered taking that job, or moving in here."

"Exactly."

I absorb this within a second while a chill of fear runs down my spine. I always suspected he had some kind of… I don't know, habit? Pleasure? Something that always wants him to have me around. He always seems to gravitate towards me, as I've recently noticed a lot of New York residents seem to do. Does he think I'm some kind of novelty or something?

"Why? Why are you so bent on keeping me at arm's length?"

He shrugs, and takes a sip of his newly cracked Corona. "You're interesting."

My infamous bullshit detector just set off. No, that's not it. There's something more there. But, I have no idea what that 'more' may be.

I run both hands through my hair in a nervous gesture. "I don't get you."

He takes a sip before mumbling, "Most people don't."

It's silent for a second before my confusion morphs into anger. "How much would a condo like this run in Harlem?"

He cocks an eyebrow at my unexpected knowledge. "How do you know about Harlem?"

"Answer me."

His jaw sets defensively against the suppressed anger in my tone. "First of all, there are no condos like these in Harlem. Secondly, calm the hell down. I'm practically giving you a free ride into the good life. You should be _thankful_."

"Whatever," I mumble, controlling my emotions. I stubbornly take another sip of my beer.

I hear ruffling coming from a bedroom door. Tala had told me there were three bedrooms, but I didn't think we'd have someone living in the third. I cock an eyebrow and point towards it. I hear ruffling coming from inside of the middle bedroom's door. I cock an eyebrow and point towards it. "What's that?"

"That's Kai," Tala said, as if this stranger was my life long friend.

"How wonderful! I should go make some biscuits and gravy."

"Shut up," He snaps. My annoying habit of talking must be pissing him off.

I idly hear a door being opened, but continue anyways. I point to the flock of burning ass of baboon perched on his head. "You _have_ to dye it."

"It's natural, Kon.

"If you're trying to tell me that _that's_ natural, then bat me down five feet and get out of my way, Willis."

He turns around, thoroughly pissed. "Kon, look, I'm in no mood for you-"

I cock an eyebrow when Tala cuts short and focuses his eyes behind me. Oh, right. Our other roomy. I turn around about two seconds after Tala, and then I kind of forget how to regain control over my jaw which has slacked to the floor.

What the hell?

Does Starbucks deliver now?

I consider throwing a nickel at him and kicking him towards the foyer, but then I catch the expression on his face. The same what-the-hell-is-going-on-right-now-are-you-fucking-serious face you get when you're confused beyond belief. You know, the same look every twelve year old chick has when she gets her period for the first time. What, is he lost or something? Door's right there. I know that and I haven't even been here for 10 minutes yet.

And then I notice the torn sweatpants and the old looking _Superman_ shirt he's got on. I really wouldn't call that on-the-job attire. Then I piece it all together.

I feel a migraine the size of Rosie O' Donald in the making when I speak, sounding like a frustrated first-time mother. "I'm being punk'd, aren't I?"

His previous confused look is now replaced with one of just pure annoyance. His hair is all tousled and he's got iPod earphones slung around his shoulders. He's so still, he looks like he's doing a really good imitation of Michelangelo's David (except a douche and not naked and a douche) when his frown increases by a quarter of an inch.

"_He's_ our new roommate?" Assy asks, gesturing to me.

"Have you two met?" Tala asks. My eyes narrow in disgust when I notice his cruel smirk. This isn't a fucking episode of _Seinfeld_. What the hell is he so happy about?

"No," We both growl at the same time.

"Well, kind of. He's a douche." I pretend said douche isn't in the room.

He snorts like a pig inhaling cocaine. "Isn't it time for your nap, kid?"

Tala raises an eyebrow.

"Did you hear that?" I ask dramatically, my voice echoing in the silent room. "That's the sound of _coffee not being made_."

His jaw sets and, instead of being scared out of my nut sack that mister three-foot-four over here is about to rip my throat out, like he thinks I should be, I laugh.

"You piece of-" Kai starts striding towards me with his puny little girl fists clenched when Tala steps directly in front of me, giving me a front row view of his ass.

God damn my inner horny bastard, but… _damn_.

"Stop it," He warns Assy, me still admiring God's great gift to mankind.

"Did you hear what he said? Let me go!"

"He's just a kid," Tala amends, trying to calm him down. "He doesn't know any better."

I momentarily take my eyes off the prize to frown at the back of Tala's head. "I'm right here, you know."

"And you'll be out there" - he points to the door - "If you don't shut up."

"I'm cool with that." And I continue staring at his ass.

"That's _him_," Assy stresses, and points to me. "That's the annoying douche I've been telling you about!"

Tala turns his head to look at me with amused eyes. "_That's_ him? Ray?"

"You say his name like I've known him all my life."

My ears perk. Didn't I just say that a minute ago? No, I didn't, I _thought_ it…

"Well," Tala says, still looking at me. "It makes sense. He gets a little pissy if you get on his nerves."

My jaw drops to the floor for the second time today. "_Me?_ Look who's talking, Mr. Touch-My-Vodka-And-You'll-Be-In-The-Emergency-Room."

Assy smirks at the description and Tala's eyes frost over. Within a second he's smirking, and his eyes dart back and fourth between me and the douche.

"Well, well, well, isn't this an interesting turn of events," he murmurs, seemingly satisfied with himself.

Kai snorts again, sticks one bud back in his ear, and almost stomps back to (I'm assuming) his room.

I stare pleadingly at Tala, not sure what I'm pleading for.

He ignores the look, picks up his beer, and starts fiddling with the touch-screen T.V. on the fridge again.

I stare haphazardly at my beer, and blink a couple of times. I've just recently noticed what a story book my life has become. Seriously, if some chick just decided to write all of this B.S. down, she'd have a whole fucking multi-chapter story done.

I push back from the counter and stare at the incredibly rich apartment in an observative manner, and then sigh. What the hell, I might as well record what_ I_ do here. I'm one of them.

I'm an _American_ now.

* * *

I've got a bunch of people who have this story favourited and/or on alert, but a bunch don't provide any feedback. Read _and _review, please.


	5. The One With the Music

**Author:** Neiize

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Beyblade or anything else that brings in a sufficient amount of money, for that matter. What I do own is the story line and plot that go on in my story and the occasional OC, but that is all. I write for the sake of writing, and nothing more.

**Warning:** None

**Author's Note:** Yes, I do realize this is not the best chapter I've ever written. In the words of Perez Hilton: GTFO. I promised I would update last week, and I didn't. So I swore to myself I would sit down during _this_ weekend and connect the little bits of Correlation I had written during brief spurts of inspiration. Coincidentally, I found that the things I had written were either a) crap, b) gay in the not-Ray way, or c) stuff that would fit in better in later chapters.

In conclusion, I concentrated and tried my best to get words out during writer's block. This chapter came out slightly different than how I wanted to be, so I apologize if it's on the border of 'okay' and 'garbage'. Hey, at least I tried.

Extra stuff: the music Ray hears is _Gimme Sympathy_, by Metric and _The Hand that Feeds _by Nine Inch Nails.

Final note: this will be the take off chapter- as in, things will start picking up right about now.

* * *

The One With the Music

* * *

"It's weird , isn't it?" Brooklyn asks with his nose pressed against the screen. I stare at the offending TV screen, blinking a few times. I don't know what it is that we're watching, but since I am in a Place of Edumacations I feel saying '_what the fuck is that shit?_' would turn a few heads.

"I guess so. What is it?"

"It's the electron chain transport in the mitochondria. It's happening right now. That's why it's moving."

For those fifty percent of you who dropped high school bio within the first week of enrolling in it, the electron chain transport is the area in the mitochondria (the powerhouse of the cell) where all sugar we eat is directly turned into ATP, or _adenosine triphosphate_. One sugar molecule equals 36 ATP's, and basically we go through this really fucking complicated process where the ATP is used while exploding and therefore releases energy. Think of the mitochondria as the dynamite and the ATP as the thing that sets it on fire.

"We should turn this off and get to work," but he's already half dancing towards the off button on the screen. I grab the remote on the table beside me and press the on/off button right after Brooklyn presses the same switch. The TV switches back on again, and Brooklyn glares it at like that one fat kid at the party that eats the last piece of cake.

"Don't touch it," I say, sounding tired. I switch it off again even though he's already scouring through the contents of a metallic cupboard. I sigh and squeeze the bridge of my nose, feeling drained.

He pulls out two thickly bound stacks of paper that look concussion causing if I aimed it ever so at my frontal lobe. I consider the options when ol' Brook interrupts my thoughts. "Mr. Langstaff told me to tell you about the Applegate Project."

He talks about it like it's been my lifelong best friend. "Project what now?"

Brooklyn smirks.

Criminally.

* * *

I chomp down on the Hawaiian pizza and frown.

"This tastes weird," I say right before devouring another piece.

"Then maybe you should stop eating it like a starving Ethiopian child." Tala suggests before taking a reasonably-sized bite of his own.

"Gart Voop Dawhm Ruhin." What I meant to say was, "Shut up you damn Russian," but talking with a mouthful of pizza slightly disorients your words.

And before Tala can even open his puny white-person lips to make a racist joke or squint his very large eyes at me, Russian Problem Number 2 walks in, resulting in a gag reflex.

"You okay, Kon?" Asks Tala.

I nod, eyeing Assy while trying to clear my throat.

Why the hell does the sadistic chick who writes this shit cut into my life the _second_ Assy walks in?

"Vodka Vodka Vodka Vodka Raccoon Hats Vodka Vodka," Assy says.

"Vodka Vodka Vodka Vodka Threatening People and Shouting at Inanimate Objects Vodka Vodka," replies Tala.

I think they're speaking Russian.

Assy tip toes his way between my purposely spread legs and takes a seat beside Tala on the couch. They're still talking as Russian Problem Number 2 undoes the top buttons of his Starshmucks polo and grabs a slice.

I put down my crust on the cardboard pizza box and rub my eyes for the fiftieth time today.

I can't fucking sleep here.

I took sleeping pills. Tala takes them every night, too. I drank cold glasses of water. Took many, many shits. Attempted to read the only 'literature' around here, which is in Russian. Nothing helped me sleep, so I stayed up all night staring at the moulding in the ceiling and making popping noises every time the grandfather clock in the living room struck. Insomnia and many canker sores later, I take the bus route with Tala to work- and if you don't remember my first bus trip here (which involved a death threat), you should be able to work out how that went.

First off, there was no where to fucking sit, so I had to grab onto one of those handles on the top. Which I didn't mind until I found a nice fat piece of gum as big as Rosie O' Donald's glued to my palm. Between my cries of "Gross!" and "Tala get this fucking thing off of me," I find myself at NYU, which I'm not even going to fucking get into until these two douche bags stop snickering in my general direction.

"Look, Tala and Asshole, I've had a bad day."

"Asshole has a name," Tala says with a grimace.

"_Kai _is sitting right here," says Assy, going from 'lol' to 'WTF' in two seconds. I now notice that the humming in the background was the buzzing of CNN, which Tala happens to be a huge fan of.

"Which channel is Peachtree on?" I ask flippantly, cataloguing it for later.

"1024," replies Problem 1.

I do a full 180 degree turn at gawk at the flaming baboon head.

Assy smirks, mumbles something in Vodkatongue to Tala, eyes me, and laughs.

My gawk turns into a glare. "Who the fuck needs 1024 channels?"

Tala rolls his eyes as Assy gets up and strides into his room. I sigh and pound myself down on the white leather sectional sofa beside him. I moan a bit too loudly, considering all the things that have been plaguing me all day.

"What happened?" Tala asks suddenly, reading my mind.

"I don't know. Today, I was thinking about life and stuff, and-"

"What the hell are _you_ talking about?" Tala interrupts, muting out Larry King's voice with his rude tone. "I meant with Kai."

I frown and puff out my breath. "Who the hell gives a crap about Ass- whoa, _that's_ his name?" I smile boorishly, and remember Assy's attempt at correcting me a couple minutes ago. "Huh. That's funny."

"Why is that funny?" He smirks sardonically at me and pulls back the corners of his eyes with his fingers. "It's not like it's Ping or something."

"Haha, Mr. High Class Humour. I mean it doesn't sound Russian." I pause and then speak with an accusatory tone. "And neither does _Tala_, now that I think about it."

"Tala is a prosperous city south of Moscow," Says the 'Prosperous City' while snootily taking a sip of his diet Coke. "And you're right. Kai isn't a Russian name. Neither is his last name. It's some sort of Asain variation."

"How is that possible?" I ask, more intrigued than I should be. "Wait a minute. Asian? Who do you think you're talking to? Spill it, Drunky."

"Okay, Rice-y. It's Hiwatari."

I snort. "He-wah-tah-ree? It sounds more like a Mario character than a line of ancestry."

"With all these absolutely _relevant_ fact in mind," he says while rounding back to the subject at hand, "what did you do to him?"

"Nothing, Tala. He just can't serve customers without acting like they're trying to hack out kidney."

He deliberates on my face like he's considering my answer. Seemingly unsatisfied but worn-out, he rubs his forehead like there's a small headache building up there.

Speaking of headaches, let's recap my life.

On April 4th, 1990, a little bundle of joy was forcefully pushed out his mom's warm and comfy womb and out into this bright and scary world. But somehow, from there this little bundle learned to crawl, said his/hers/its (?) first word, walked, talked, went to school, learned to ride a bike, scraped a knee or two, became a ninja, finished high school; you know, all the things a normal kid does.

Paralleling normal things, let's talk about today.

Today, I ran into the receptionist from the crappy hotel I stayed at for a couple of days at Assy's Starbucks. Her name is Melanie. She looks and smiles and talks and even words things the same way my mom does. She calls me dear, and treated me to a 'largay' hot chocolate with whipped cream. She asked if I was getting enough food and was proud of me for getting a good job at a precious university. Miss Melanie Stratford is not like, but _is_ a white version of my mom.

And today, I realize I really, really miss my mom.

And from remembering how much I love my mom, I also remembered that my mom loves me. From there I also remembered that I've been away for more than a week with not even a peep of my whereabouts. That I've been completely and unjustly stupid and reckless- just taking off like that with no more than a couple hundred bucks and a dingy iPod in my pocket. For all my mom knows, I'm her Slolin- a dead corpse rotting somewhere off a broken-down street.

Considering all of this, there's only one logical thing to do. I mean, my mom's probably half dead with concern for me, and my friends back home are all most likely freaking out. A missing-persons report would be filed, and cops would be looking for me- wasting money and time for kids who are in reality missing and in danger.

Maybe it's time to go back home.

"Kon," Tala says while flipping through the contents of the side table beside the sectional. I flinch when he pulls me out of my thoughts. He doesn't notice. "Did you see where I left my last paycheck?"

"Yeah," I say, and even I, the near-illiterate, forgetful monkey can hear the dread tinting my tone. I don't really care to hide it, either. "You slipped it into between two pages of that black-leather day planner you have."

He head snaps with a force of a whip towards my face, eyes wide, and eyebrows bent in confusion, looking _concerned_.

Either someone has bought out every designer store in the world and has refused Tala entry, or he's a bit more attentive than I gave him credit for.

"What?" Tala asks, without a thought snapping closed the side table's doors and giving me full consideration.

"What... what?"

"What's wrong?" Tala clarifies, tilting his head like he can somehow read me better from that angle. "It looks like someone ran over your dog."

"It's nothing," I say quickly, getting up.

His lip twists in a troubled sort of way. "You sure?"

"Yeah, yeah." I dismiss him. I can feel his gaze penetrating my back and start wandering out of the room, physically and mentally.

You've got to understand though, that the only reason I jump to the final conclusion of going back home is because I know that if I even try to make some sort of contact to tell anyone that I'm not dead, my mom would track me down faster than a hick during hunting season. If I sent a letter, she would read the forwarding address and come looking for me. If I called, she'd somehow use her motherly power to pry out my location. Hell, she doesn't even have an e-mail and she'd work out where I was anyways if I sent one to a completely unknown address.

I round my way out of the living room, past the dinning, down the annoyingly long hallway, into my room and shut the door behind me, sighing. It's almost as nice as my room back home- the walls are a forest green colour, and the bed is covered with goldenrod and crème coloured sheets and pillows. The carpet is off-white, and the curtains match the bed sheets. If you so much as slightly tilt your head upwards, you're hit with an eyeful of church-style moulding on the ceiling that leave you feeling sinful for ruining the scrapes in cement with your ugly face. Tala told me it was a guest room before I arrived.

I flopped down face-first on the oversized beg and sigh, again. I can't just run away from my damn problems anymore. I have to man-up and face my problems, which is quite ironic coming from a gay guy.

And before I can continue berating myself and making gay jokes, I hear a familiar beat and solid lyrics that leave me with a smile on my face and calm my tense muscles into nothing but a pile of soothing mush.

_"I'll remember someday all the chances we took; we're so close, to something better left unknown, I can feel it in my bones..."_

It's Metric. A Canadian indie-band is playing in a suburban McAmerican condo. But where the hell is that coming from? Tala hates music. I roll off the bed and open my door, letting my head stick out. From my room I can see the hall that leads to our three bedrooms and a bit of the dinning and living room. But the noise is coming from my right, which happens to be Assy's bedroom.

It's not until the chorus kicks in that I realize I haven't listened to a damn song for at least a week, and that I would punch a cancer patient if they tried to get in between me and my iPod.

I tap my foot habitually, keeping the beat. Something I haven't done in a_ long _time.

Before knowing it I'm out in the hall and raising my hand to knock on Assy's door. I cut myself off halfway and stare at my fist like it had just offended me.

What in hell's name do I think I'm doing?

I step back and stare at the door.

I grunt dramatically and puff out my cheeks. I'm just going to get the hell over it. Yes, he's a douche. And yes, I did provoke him to be a douche. But I'll be damned if I withhold a God-like force from myself just because of my pride. Gay people have enough of it to throw a damn parade, anyways, so I think I'll be able to spare _just a little_ to keep my sanity.

I knock curtly three times on Assy's door and move back.

I roll on the balls of my feet, wondering if his pretty is loud enough to block out the knocking. With a grunt I rap on the door again, this time quicker.

"Aga?" Comes from inside the room.

I cock an eyebrow. I'm thinking that was Assy speaking Russian or that there's a baby spitting up in there. Either way, I take this as a sign to come in. And as I walk in I'm greeted by a top notch stereo, a king-sized bed with deep blue sheets and a sliding glass-door leading to a balcony to the right of it. No abused baby in sight, and Kai's sitting on a swivel chair, clicking away on his PC. He looks at me, was expecting Tala, and frowns.

"What do you want?"

Courteous host, thy name is Assy.

I have nothing more to say than, "Hi."

He turns in his chair, picks up a remote and mutes the music. I wince like I had just witnessed someone chopping a guy's head off.

"What do you want?" He repeats.

"I was just wondering if I could listen to some music."

Assy seems taken back by the simple request and frowns deeper. For the first time in a long time I take a good look and him and feel my inner pubescent teenager bubble in my throat again. Good lord, is anyone naturally born with blood-red eyes? Or gray hair?

"I guess so." He decides after a long pause.

I smile in relief. "Thanks. I owe you one."

His eyebrows pull up at the corners in confusion. Since I've done nothing but ogle, swear at, and annoy this guy, I figure he kind of finds it weird that I'm able to present myself as a sane member of society and am not off drooling into a cup somewhere. I mull over this while I flip through the contents of his iPod Touch which are docked to a stereo system big enough to make Tala's ego look the size of a mouse.

I smile and select Nine Inch Nails and then almost gleefully orgasm when I find _With Teeth_, one of the best alternative albums ever to grace Canadialand. I can hear Assy clicking away like his life depended on it as I pick out _The Hand that Feeds_.

I stand there awkwardly, with Assy's back to me while he surfs what looks to be eBay. I look around and decide not to get my ass handed to me by crumpling his bed sheets and just sit on the floor.

"Why are you here?" He asks suddenly, still staring at his computer monitor.

"Me?"

"No," He quips sarcastically, "I meant the bed. Of course you."

"Well," I start, my problems being pushed to the back of my thoughts, "It's a long story. My parents kicked me out of the house and I hoped the border. Then I went to this really crappy motel after almost getting beaten up in a bus and when I went inside there was a robbery going on and the robber took all my money and my iPod and I haven't listened to music all week. And you were just listening to Metric, and then I got the urge to come here and listen."

Kai abruptly stops clicking, turns around in his chair to fully face me with what seems like a… amused expression on his face.

Do Russian people even _do_ happy?

He rubs his forehead to attempt to hide the _huge sunny smile_ raping his usually annoyed face. Naturally, I can't help but smile back.

"What's so funny?" I asked, my bad mood miles away.

He drops his hand at looks at me. "What's your name again?"

"Ray," I say. I can feel the slight blush creeping onto my face and my hand are sweating. He's a lot better looking when he smiles, and let us keep in mind I was ready to have his babies with a frown on.

His smile promptly fades and he looks at me with a sober expression. "You can take my iPod to your room," he says coldly and turns back to his computer. "I have music on my computer."

"Uh," I say, astounded by his sudden bitterness. Dare I say, he's even worse than Tala. "Okay. Thanks." It sounds more like a question.

He says nothing.

_The Hand that Feeds_ is still playing when I suddenly yank the iPod out of the dock and half run back to my room, my heart for some reason beating a mile a minute.

* * *

Note: Sorry about any grammar/spelling. Read _and_ Review, please.


	6. The One With Cancer and the Date

**Author**: Neiize

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Beyblade or anything else that brings in a sufficient amount of money, for that matter. What I do own is the storyline and plot that go on in my story and the occasional OC, but that is all. I write for the sake of writing, and nothing more.

**Warning**: Language

**Author's Notes**: I know, it's taken me months to update. I'm apologize, but the threat of exams and a number of social events kept me from even browsing , let alone updating on it. As I've said an abundance of times: better late than never, right?

On a personal note, a lot of people have been messaging me about an update, and again I'm sorry it took so long. I literally just finished it and didn't take the time to edit it, so excuse any grammar/spelling. It's a bit more serious than the other chapters, only because the topic is something I didn't feel like joking about.

Note: I do not own _Married With Children_ or anything associated with it.

* * *

The One With Cancer and the Date

* * *

"Project Applegate is one of the most hushed and renowned scientific advances in the modern world. We could do it, we could truly do it. There is no doubt in our minds. We could accomplish the one thing everyone has been waiting for; that one cure that millions of people pray for every single day. Our sister schools across the globe agree that this is no fluke; thousands of highly honed and trained scientists, nurses, doctors, physicist, chemists; they've all put their most cultivated and meticulous research notes as guidelines. This is bigger than the failed Genome Project. This is bigger than you, me, your mother, your father, your _anyone_. This is bigger than big. This is substantial. This is _incredible_."

"That's the same thing George Bush said when he got his slinkie down the presidential steps. _This is incredible_," I whisper in a hick accent.

Brooklyn snorts in response and takes a bite of his university-provided breakfast sandwich, still staring at Mr. Langstaff who is blathering on and on about a life-changing project that, from what I can tell, involves produce and metal poles. The Americans have really thought things through here.

"I don't get it. What is this whole thing about?" I ask quietly, taking a wide look around me. We're in a lecture hall enormous enough to fit Tala's ego and then some. People from all the different science departments of the university are scattered around weird seating arrangements all over the room, but the ones who specialize in common branches are usually put together. Brooklyn's on my left, and a skinny blonde woman who also works in Internal Systems is on my right.

"I can't believe he didn't tell you about it earlier. It's the whole reason you even got hired."

"_What's _the whole reason I got hired?"

"Project Applegate."

"Which is?"

"The whole reason you got hired! Would you pay attention?"

"I'm told murder influenced by stupidity is pretty common in New York."

Brooklyn smiles playfully and nudges his chin towards Mr. Pedo. "Just listen."

I turn my head towards the podium where he's still talking. I get the feeling this project is a pretty big fucking deal- there's delegates from around the world seated in a semi-circle pattern on the edge of Mr. Pedo's stage with translators trying to keep up with the pace. I thought Tala might be here with a steel-made Russian representative, but I didn't spot him.

"Many of you who do not work at the prestigious University of New York or any of it's research centers around the world are probably wondering what our magnum opus is about."

Because everyone knows that the best way of winning over some of the most important non-Anglos in the world is to throw some random-ass Latin into your novel-long speech, Mr. Pedo.

"You see," he said at the exact moment a professional looking PowerPoint flashed onto the screen behind him, "Project Applegate is named after Christina Applegate, who myself along with many of you may remember as Kelly Bundy from _Married with Children_."

For the first time in the hour, some people start clapping in approval. At the same time, Brooklyn looks over at me with a frown. Either my face is greatly offending him, or he really hates that show.

"We look pretty bad to you, huh?" Brooklyn asks, still frowning.

"Damn straight. I think Langstaff has been the direct cause of a good chunk of New York's detached retina cases. Who in fuck's name wears citrus orange under a canary yellow shirt? God damn, it's like he raided Ronald McDonald's closet."

Brooklyn coughs, trying to hide a laugh. "I meant we, as Americans, look _dumb_. We've been talking about logical things for god knows how long with no response, and the second someone mentions a sitcom based around sex and flushing toilets the crowd breaks into a fucking symphony of applause."

I blink a couple of times in surprise. I've recently noticed how god damn intuitive and ahead of the game Brooklyn is. Even though he's usually as confused as a deceased terrorist without 72 virgins, sometimes he says shit that's so profound it makes you look around the room for the card he has to be reading it off of. "We both know I am nowhere _near_ perceptive enough to give two shits."

Brooklyn eyebrows furrow as he finishes taking a sip of his coke. "I think you're plenty perceptive."

I want to listen to Langstaff, so to end the conversation I jokingly whisper, "You're so gay."

"So?"

It's quiet for a second while I try to focus on Mr. Pedo's speech.

Then it kicks in.

Wait, _what?_

My jaw nearly cracks the pavement. I turn to stare at Brooklyn wide-eyed, but he has suddenly found an extreme interest and longing in the cracks running along the plaster of the ceiling. I gawk for a second, shake my head, stare back at him, and shake my head again. There is no god damn way that Brooklyn is a queer. He's straighter than the fucking CN tower; he practically orgasms at the sight of a football, he always talks about wanting a son and he has never once ogled one of the many hot white guys who litter the NYU premises. No way. Game over, all gone, everything done. He is _not _gay.

"You're _gay?_" I blurt out, sounding like I'm scared.

"Yup." He says with no hesitation.

Even though on the outside I'm reacting in such horror as that of someone making me forcibly watch Mr. Pedo strip, on the inside I'm kind of… happy. I'm going to be straight up with you guys; Brooklyn is hotter than the inside of your car after you parked it in the sun, and is nicer than the general quality of Tala's butt. He's pretty funny, too, and has an I.Q. high enough to make you need extensive jaw surgery once you're convinced it's true.

"What's wrong?" Brooklyn asks, sounding angry. "Don't like talking to fags?"

"No, I talk to myself all the time."

Brooklyn's composure quickly sinks and he looks at me like I just told him I have a third ass cheek. I stare back at the stage where Mr. Langstaff is waiting for the technician handling the computer to fix the slideshow.

"You're gay?" Brooklyn asks, sounding suspicious.

I'm gayer than Michael Jackson at a Boy Scout meeting, pal.

"Why the hell do you think I'm in _here_?"

"I thought you were here for the free food."

Touché.

"I meant here in _America_. My parents kicked me out when I told them."

"So you hoped the fucking border? They kicked you out of the house, Ray, not the damn country. How the hell did you manage to bypass customs? Holy shit!" He yells suddenly. A good ten heads stare at Brooklyn, looking bewildered.

"I know!" I shriek back. "I can't believe it's not butter, either! It tastes exactly the same!"

"You're an illegal immigrant?" He ignores my attempt to settle down the scene, now whispering. "Does Langstaff know? Shit, Ray, you could get into a lot of trouble."

No one seems to be listening anymore. "He knows, Brooklyn. Look, we'll talk about it some other time, okay?"

He studies my face, a look of uncertainty in his eyes. Finally, he says, "Okay."

I nod. Glancing back at the stage, I watch Langstaff and the technician attempt to fix the problem for a few quiet minutes.

"Hey, Ray?" Brooklyn asks me out of the blue.

I look at him from the corner of my eye. Methinks I hear something weird jumping in his voice. "Yeah?"

"You wanna go out some time?" He asks bluntly.

I think that Brooklyn must wear a cup everyday while in public outings to support his balls of steel.

"What?" I ask. I feel a light blush on my face.

"Do you want to go out on a date with me?" He clarifies, thinking I didn't understand.

Let me think about it as I change my shit-soaked pants, Brook.

"When?"

"Whenever it's good for you. I can pick you up."

Jesus Christ, that was fucking abrupt. The guy finds out I'm a fag and on the same breath we're practically hitched. Either he really enjoys the hilarity of my slanted eyes and would like to see them outside of work, or he's really horny.

"Where?"

"How about we shoot through the 5 W's during the date?"

I gulp. As a retard drooling into a cup could see, I have a nervous habit of prolonging my answer when I don't have a definite one. I like Brooklyn, but as a friend. I never thought of him that way… and I guess, it's because I didn't think he was gay. It could work.

… Right?

"Okay."

Brooklyn smiles at me like I just announced Osama Bin Laden's whereabouts. Before I know what he's doing he intertwines his fingers with mine, and squeezes my hand. I look up at his face, and he's grinning.

"You won't regret it."

I roll my eyes heavenwards and sigh. Dear Lord, have mercy. He's absolutely adorable.

"I apologize for the inconvenience," Mr. Pedo says timidly into the fixed microphone. Brooklyn releases possession of my hand, but I think I'm still blushing. I rub my hands together, trying to get feeling back into them. "As I was saying, Project Applegate is named after Christina Applegate, who in her time was a prominent Hollywood starlet." Mr. Langstaff takes a dramatic pause, before adding, "During her time, she was also a famous advocate for cancer research and awareness."

"Cancer?" I ask out loud, because I'm mentally unstable.

"It's a real miracle," Brooklyn whispers under his breath.

A miracle? I cock an eyebrow at him even though he's not looking at me. What the hell is he talking about?

"No one thought it was possible," Mr. Pedo says, eyes shinning. "After decades and decades and millions poured into research, many people of purebred education even started to believe the general society in the impracticality of solving this monstrous disease. However, some very unstable test trials in various forms, such as vaccines and drugs, have been administered. And 100 percent of these various forms have come back with overpoweringly positive results."

I look around me, and the only people who look halfway shitfaced as I am are the delegates and their translators. They… they found a _cure_?

"These medications have been a result of half a century of research and billions poured into patent tests and research. It's not complete; there are millions in sister research facilities in countries which all of the respective delegates here are from."

Alright, all-fucking-right, hold on a god damn second.

How in hell's name can this be _possible?_

Cancer is famous for being… a cancer. For being unstoppable and ruthless. It's basically just a mass of asshole cells that duplicated beyond control, so it's not a virus we can squash. It happens out of no where- we can't vaccinate against it, we can't remove it without giving ourselves a hernia. The scientific community has silently agreed that it's basically impossible to stop, even though research still continues. No one, even me, ever the optimist (look, I made a funny) thought this would be possible. But I'm looking around this room, and every intelligent individual had this smirk on their face. A big 'fuck you' to God, for stopping one of His worst creations right in its tracks.

Don't get me wrong: this is fantastic. Amazing. It's what the world's been waiting for. But it's illogical. It doesn't make any sense.

How in hell's name can this be _possible?_

"The 7,000 or so who are diligently working on this cure all understand the science of it-"

I groan. Loud.

"-and it will be explained to our public representatives later on in the conference."

I smile. Wide.

The blonde on my right starts to cough. I look at her as a way of distraction, and then she smiles at me. I smile back as much as I can during the announcement of a fucking global revolution and stare back at Langstaff.

"Every representation here are from cities that host some of our research facilities. These include the London, Paris, Florence, Prague, Madrid, Berlin, Accra, Shanghai, and Buenos Aires. "

There was a light applause while I tried to figure out if these cities were in credible counties. Okay, London is in Britain, Paris in France. I'm pretty sure Florence is the capital of Italy and Prague of Czechoslovakia. Berlin is in Germany, and of course the wondrous and beautiful Shanghai is the capital of one of the world's finest nations, China. My Asian brothers from other mothers are doing me quite proud. As for the other two, I have no clue. I thought Accra was a type of _Neopet_. And shoot me now if Buenos Aires isn't a happy airline.

"Do you know where Buenos Aires is?" I lean over and ask Brooklyn.

"No, I was trying to figure it out myself. Do you know where Accra is?"

"Online. It's a fucking _Neopet_, I swear."

"I think it's in Africa somewhere." Brooklyn corrects in a gentle voice.

"No, I think the Neopet is blue, not black."

Brooklyn bites him lip in an effort to not laugh.

The PowerPoint behind Mr. Langstaff flicks on again. "We have a plan to expand the medication here in the United States for a while, but we'll need co-operation from our sister cities around the globe. You see…"

* * *

"You're lying."

"I'm not lying."

"You're lying."

"I'm not fucking lying."

"That is absolutely impossible."

"It's not impossible. They've found the cure to cancer."

"Cancer?"Tala suddenly exclaims, sounding surprised. "What the hell are you talking about? I meant about you having a date."

Yes, it's easier for Tala to believe that the scientific community has finally found the cure to the most deplorable disease in the world than it is for him to believe that I, the lost little Asian Canadian, has somehow wrangled himself a date.

So, I feel great about myself. How's your life going?

"With who?" Tala asks, suspicious.

"You've gotta be joking, Tala. Could you take this seriously? Cancer. The cure for fucking cancer."

We're both sitting in Tala's bedroom, eating Chinese out of a stereotypical white carton. He's leaning against a perfectly-painted crème coloured wall, and I'm sitting on his memory-foam king size bed.

"One hard to believe event at a time." Tala says before he eats a piece of sweet-and-sour pork. "With who?"

"You don't know him."

"Brooklyn?"

"How in fuck's name do you know him?"

He smiles at my annoyance, as per usual. "You talk about him sometimes."

My face drops. Do I talk about him at home? I haven't really noticed. "I do?"

"Yes, Sherlock. Pay attention. You didn't tell me he was gay, though."

"I didn't know myself until today."

"Hmmm," Tala drones. He takes a seat beside me on his bed. "Did he ask you or you him?"

My eyebrow cocks to my hairline. If any of you've been paying any attention at all during the whole depressive agony which is my life, you would have noticed that the most Tala asks me when I get home from work goes along the lines of, "Kon, did you see the remote?" or, "Kon, what the hell are you wearing?" Call me crazy, but none of this sounds anything like, "Kon, okay, let me get this straight gurlfrien', who asked who out first, gurl?"

"Why do you care?"

Tala smirks sardonically. "Because virgins need all the help they can get."

"I am _not_ a virgin!"

And of course, Assy decides to prance into Tala's room the exact moment I yell that at the top of my lungs.

And of course, Tala is laughing is ass off.

"Could have fooled me," Assy remarks as he grabs the container of Chinese Tala had bought for him and digs right in. He leans against the wall Tala was at before. I glare at him.

Tala stops laughing suddenly and pushes his Chinese aside. "You didn't answer the question."

"Which question?"

"Did you ask him out?"

"Did I?" I ponder in a too-innocent voice. "I can't recall."

"Kon," Tala warns in a dangerous voice. Whereas Gandhi has an unlimited pool of patience that ends with him merely frowning at you, Tala has a small puddle of basic tolerance that's end causes the next nuclear world war.

"He asked me, okay? Why does it matter?"

Assy cuts in and says something in Russian. Tala says "Da," which means 'Yes', and says something that sounds like someone running over an elephant's toe. Then Assy nods with a solemn expression, and Tala turns his attention back to me. "Do you like him?"

I consider the question, forgetting that Assy is still in the room. "I think so. He's good looking, and he's smart and funny. He called my boss a baby Hitler the first day I met him."

Tala rolled his eyes. "What a high-brow humor he posses."

Assy chuckles, and I ring an eyebrow as I speak around a mouthful of noodles. "Why so defensive, Tala?"

"I'm not being defensive," he responds in the very regal and disconnected tone Tala himself most likely invented and copyrighted. "I'm simply saying that you can't just go on a date someone because they you feel sorry for them."

"Where the hell did you get the inclination that I feel _sorry_ for him? Wait a minute." I say, suddenly remembering how defensive Brooklyn reacted when he thought I was straight. "Aren't you grossed out?"

"No, not really. There's always those fools who falls for your people's Asian charm. The cooking is quite top-notch. " Tala says matter-of-factly while chewing on rice.

"_No_," I say, not knowing if I should be offended or flattered. "I mean, aren't you creeped out because I'm gay?"

Assy sinks to the floor, still mesmerized by his food. He says something in Vodkatongue, and Tala smiles and replies. Assy cocks his eyebrow at whatever Tala tells him, and for the first time today looks straight into my eyes.

I still can't get over it. His eyes are red. Not even a dingy little auburn or a brighter cherry, but this intense crimson. It should be really fucking creepy, but it's gorgeous on him. We stare at each other for a good 5 seconds, with sparks flying in the air between us. There's this heavy load in my chest and I think I'm starting to blush again when Tala speaks, not noticing that the air around him is aflame. Assy quickly looks away.

"I'm not worried about you being gay, Ray." Tala answers after what seems like an eternity. "Unlike most of society, I'm not a homophobe."

Right there and then, both Russian Problems smile, like they're laughing at a private little joke that I'm too annoyed to ask about. We eat in silence for a while. My eyes wander as I chew, and I notice a little black slab of unmatching colour on Assy's tie-dye t-shirt. I'm not sure if it's a hunk of paint that's not supposed to be there or if-

"So they've found a cure to cancer?" Tala asks with all seriousness, breaking my thoughts.

Assy sets down his near-finished Chinese and stares at Tala with an evenly-blended mix of shock and joy in his eyes. "What?"

Tala nudges his hand towards me. "Apparently they've done it."

Assy looks at me skeptically. He crosses his arms in defiance. "No way."

"Ya way!" I respond in such a gay voice that Assy and Tala both glare and the later curses at me. I laugh and respond, "It's not a full fledged cure. But it looks like it's going to be."

Tala shakes his head and stares at his empty carton. "You scientific assholes have finally done it."

"That's our name. Don't wear it out," I add sarcastically.

Assy lifts his head from his knees suddenly speaks up. "You're very witty, aren't you?"

I glance at him, bewildered. "Me?"

"No, the drywall. It has quite a mouth."

Tala chortles, and Assy smirks at me lightheartedly.

I blush, for the second time in the past 30 minutes.

I blush, because of the guy who I'm not going on a date with.

I'm in trouble.

* * *

Man, I've been waiting a long time to the get the relationship ball rolling. If you can't tell already, erratic plot twists are my specialty. Expect them. Read _and _Review, please.


	7. The One Where They Renovate

**Author**: Neiize

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Beyblade or anything else that brings in a sufficient amount of money, for that matter. What I do own is the storyline and plot that go on in my story and the occasional OC, but that is all. I write for the sake of writing, and nothing more.

**Warning**: Language

**Author's Notes**: Oh, hey!

I'm baaaack! And with an extra long update, too. It's about a thousand words heftier than any other chapter I've written for this story, so it better be well appreciated.

Side note: I do not own Starbucks, Valspar, or anything else that has a fractional chance of getting my ass sued.

* * *

The One Where They Renovate

* * *

"I think _this_ blue would look best." Tala announces grandly, like he just found the pesky mosquito that started the West Nile virus after years of searching.

Right hand cupping my chin, I consider the colour and paint an imaginary shade of the swatch Tala's pointing at over the walls of his bedroom.

"Not bad," I comment finally, stepping in line with him and flipping through the hundreds of options, until I found the tint of interest. "But I think the royal would look better than the baby."

"Hm," he considers, studying both shades.

I look around the room, frowning a bit. Why's he choosing blue? The furniture in this room is all new-age, bright pastels. The crème coloured wall he has now blends in well with them, but a blunt blue would give even a colour blind man a permanent eye ulcer.

"Hey, Tala?"

"What?" he snaps when I break his concentration. My ever so annoying of speaking when wanting to get a message across really grates on his nerves.

"If you made them blue wouldn't you have to change the whole colour scheme of your furniture?"

His cerulean eyes narrow in complete intolerance. "_Obviously_."

"But changing your _whole _décor? That'll cost _at least_ a thousand dollars."

"And I just so happen to be a red head. We're making monumental discoveries by the second, Kon."

Well, la-di-dah.

"But Tala, me lord, think about the othah expenses!"

He glares at me for using the peasant voice before ignoring me, which he is _phenomenal_ at. " Look, Kon, I figured after a couple weeks of being here you'd notice that, since I live in the Upper East Side, wear designer clothing, and could buy you and your hovel of a family without blinking, I happen to be a _wealthy person_, but it doesn't seem so. A thousand dollars is child's play."

"If you get _any_ cockier, Tala, you'd be a walking testicle."

He smiles at either my subtle way of agreeing to his wealth, or, in what would surprise me, the joke itself, and goes back to meticulously studying the two swatches.

With no groan from the mattress, I take a purposely deep, digging seat into Tala's memory foam bed, hoping he'll enjoy the plush outline of my ass. I've never been through a full renovation before, but now that I'm 10 percent through _this_ one, I know that people who voluntarily rip out the foundations of their living space and redo perfectly fine, nicely painted homes, are completely and unquestionably the once-institutionalized portion of society. Why anyone would spend expansive amounts of time and money on, let's say, replacing a complete teal tile set for a blue-green one is completely beyond my sensible Asian knowledge.

"I hate to admit it, Kon, but you're right."

You were born a fully-formed penis and received massive reconstructive surgery upon birth?

"The royal does look better."

And my hopes were so high.

"So then royal?" I say hopefully, wishing this excruciating process to be done with.

"For now." He qualifies, ripping the swatch off the industrial ring which says in large print, "Please do not remove swatches". That's bad-ass Tala for you; the type of guy who'd march into a store and totally buy a non-refundable sale item and come back the next day venomously demanding a complete resale, while kicking over a gum rack and punching out the nearest cashier on the way out.

He starts a long stride out of the to-be-butchered room, so I walk beside him and watch as he lets himself right into Assy's room. I hesitate, glaring at the open space inside it from the hallway, feeling ass-like vibes just _screaming _from inside.

Doing a double take in the somehow different hallway, I notice the little dots of mismatching paint all over the walls and all the way down to the open bathroom ones. I guess he chose the colours for these before I got home.

Then a random thought pops into my head. If he's doing the whole condo, then will he…?

"You're not repainting _my_ room, right?"

"Of… am," I barely hear him say at an inside-level speaking voice. "What…hell?"

Three seconds later Tala pops his head out of Assy's room, glaring. "So, I was talking to no one the whole time?"

"No!... He has posters in there, right?"

Not amused by my shenanigans, he grabs my wrist and drags me in, ready to give me an earful for leaving his own precious being alone for three seconds, before I get back to the topic of interest.

"Are you painting my room? I couldn't really hear you from outside."

"Yes," he says, angry. "I was thinking pink. Gays appreciate the pink, correct?"

My eyes narrow to slits and my fangs bear in anger. "That's not funny."

I felt my muscles tense underneath my clothes; Tala does too, and subsequently releases possession of my wrist. His shoulders square defensive; he tilts his head at me with a confused yet guarded expression on his face. I guess he's used to this reaction. "What?"

"Don't make fun of me for being gay," I said, my voice chilling at about minus 100 degrees. "You've done it about a million times before, and I'm sick of it. Pick on me for my wealth, or lack of therefore, my heritage, my mind, my thoughts, and my words. But don't you dare even try to _touch _my sexual orientation."

Ice blue eyes intently stare at my face, and eventually Tala's lips curl into a perplexed kind of snarl. He stays in that exact same position for a good thirty seconds, not even twitching once. …Is it? Could it be? I, I think it is. Ladies and gentlemen, humans, house pets, and air motes alike: take a good long look at the scene before you, because this is the first and possibly last time mortal eyes will _ever _see Tala Ivanov at a loss for words.

Moment over. The blank orbs of blue contract and his defensive stance sinks into a slightly rigid one. I flinch slightly though standing my ground, in preparation of the (no doubt) three hour lecture of him being Russian and therefore never being wrong, when all I get is:

"Sorry."

I am… shocked! Stunned! Dazed! Kinda hungry (I didn't have breakfast this morning)! Bewildered! Taken aback! Running out of synonyms!

"Sorry?" I mimic. The word sounds just fine and dandy coming out of_ my_ mouth, but like an alien language out of Tala's.

"Yes, Kon," he very nearly growls, getting impatient.

The air in the room suddenly becomes thick, and for the many weeks I've known him, it feels… awkward between us. My cheeks redden lightly as I realize my social faux pas. Of their own accord, my eyes slide over to where Tala's looking through a number of industrial rings, all holding their respective colours.

"Sorry," I grumble quietly. "I overreacted."

"Get over it and help me pick a colour for Kai."

My face falls, momentarily forgetting the uncomfortable situation. "Assy can pick out his own crap." I wave it off, not daring to take my eyes off Tala. I will not waste my time by looking around his room, and therefore learning his likes and dislikes. Nuh-uh, no way. Even though it looks really high-tech from my corner of my eye…

"That's what I'm worried about."

"Huh?"

"Neutrals or pastels?"

If Tala ever enters the Miss New York competition, he should seriously consider registering his talent as not possessing a fraction of hearing, even though subsequent medical exams prove that, indeed, he does have eardrums. Forget solving cancer; the minds of a medical world will have a field day with Tala.

"Uh," I stutter. "I don't know. What does he like? Wait, no, scratch that. Paint it neon green."

"Neon green?" Tala asks, humouring me as he chooses what seems to be the neutrals.

"Yes. The bastard deserves detaches retina's every time he steps into this crap hole."

Tala scoffs loudly. "If you want to talk about crap holes, let's reflect upon that hideous little hovel you used to live in."

"It wasn't a hovel!" I defend the crappy little no electricity, barely containing a cot, smelly motel pretty weakly. "It had… character."

"That's what they said about Stalin."

"Oh, har har. Compare my intimate living space with the world's most ruthless dictator. A world of similarities."

"I like this brown," Tala says flatly.

"Brown?" I ask, scrunching up my nose. "The colour of dirt?" I smile gradually as I _now_ draw an easy comparison. "It's perfect."

"What do you _have_ against him?" Tala asks with exasperation.

I was wondering when he'd finally get around to asking me. I almost always harp on Assy; make some snide little comment over breakfast when he's not around, or suggest that instead of fertilizing the indoor garden we instead nourish it with used coffee grout, since there's just _so much_ of that around. Most of the time Tala will threaten or brush me off, but I can see the fleeting idea of asking me what he's done that's got me so run up always flashing in those transparent eyes. I had a grammatically correct speech written out just for the occasion, but right at that second, a simpler explanation came to mind:

"He's a dick!" I emphasize the 'd' sound.

"What a detailed and logical explanation."

I frown and open my mouth to defend myself but… no thoughts come up. That whole speech just floated right on out of Assy's open window, along with any irrational syllable that was on the tip of my tongue. Hearing my own jaw snaps shut, and I stare at the back of Tala's head in confusion since he's still flipping through colours. Hey, you've been around for a while, so tell me, what's Assy done to make me hate him again? I don't really remember much. I only started hating him on the first couple days here, and that was a couple of weeks ago…

"I'm not even going to bother," Russian Problem Number 1 mumbles, like he's talking to himself. I watch him realign and order all the swatch keys. "He's probably going to go over it himself anyways."

Just momentarily, I'm distracted when I hear that little tidbit in the end. "Does he have a love for redecorating a whole house when it doesn't need it, too?" I ask in distaste.

Tala, not in the best of his usually jovial mood (har,har), responds, "Just because you're lazy and poor doesn't mean the rest of society has to follow your lead, Kon."

Me? Lazy and poor? The guy who wakes up at 3 in the afternoon if left alone, is so slovenly that the cleaning maid who comes over every week is required to wear nuclear-waste repellent gloves while disinfecting my living quarters, and was near hysteria when I thought I dropped my five that was meant for coffee? Not at all. On the same note, I think I'll join a racial-tolerance council, have a steamy make out session with Mr. Pedo, and request the local legislature crown Tala as the most tight-pocketed man in New York.

"What are you _doing_ in here?"

Enter Assy, stage right. With a wrinkled Starshmucks polo, what look to be freshly-ripped dress pants, and a bruise the size of Tala's yearly paycheck on his right cheek, he looks like the poster boy for the corporate bad boy. Or the corporate survivor of homicide; whatever floats your boat.

"We're choosing colours to repaint the apartment," Tala says with a bored tone, not taking into account that Assy, once hearing this, is giving him the look a convicted convict would give the guy who pushes the buttons on his electrical chair. "What do you think of a nice, deep chestnut? RussianRussianRussian, RusianRussian?" Tala, I think, asks.

Assy nearly barks something back in his (probably) native tongue, the words just teeming with acid, which surprises me. These two get along like peaches and cream, though I have next to no clue on how two inanimate objects can hit it off so well. I've never once heard either of them raise their foreign voices unless it has been towards me/something that resembles me/when they can't find the remote, let alone at each other. It's not surprising, though- they go way back. I'm not sure exactly how back, but since Russians are made of steel and probably had front row seats to the extinction of the dinosaurs, it should be pretty, _pretty _back. I've tired to inquire into the matter a couple of times, but usually only get flipped the bird or told to go make rice. Even as I'm dictating their odd brotherly relationship/ Tala abusing me to you, the poor, lost, lonely, and probably off on a trek to the halfway house reader, Assy's stomping around his room and waving his arms roughly, like he has the announcement of the century on the tip of his tongue. Tala then finally snaps and almost growls something in terse Russian.

Then, the queerest thing (I would know): he finally stops pacing around his room, and drops his hands with what I can only call an expression of 'Say what now?' plastered on his slightly bruised face. Then he fists his hair with one hand (something he does only when he's stressed out), and mumbles something in a brisk, low voice.

What we mortals usually refer to as a 'jaw drop' quickly puts itself on display, with Tala as it's immortal example. Like somebody told him that someone somewhere some_how_ finished off the last of the _many _(read: the state of New York's entire supply of) bottles of vodka in the liquor cabinet, Tala looks plain baffled. Not like the monumental 'loss of words', but just purely surprised. Either he's loosing his cool, regal edge, or the United League of Russian Jackasses have universally decided to try a new approach.

"Really?" Tala asks dumbly, snapping out of his momentary stupor.

"Da, da," Assy replies in a way that makes it sounds like 'dada', which reminds me inadvertently of my hate monger father back home in Canadialand. Boy, do I have some new stories for you about _that_. But maybe later, when I'm up for nearly giving myself a lobotomy.

"For _free_?" Tala prods, suspicion in his eyes.

I get tired of, as usual, standing here like immobile lamppost, and decide to vocalize the most important of my thoughts first:

"What?"

"Kon," Tala growls, raising his open palm in warning, still starring doubtful daggers at Assy.

One four letter word, and he reacts like I challenged him to a slap-me-down. My life, ladies and gentlemen.

"Yeah, for free. One condition, though," Assy suddenly tacks on, with this unexplainable pride that could only be experienced by George Bush when pronouncing the word 'nuclear' properly.

Problem 1's eyes narrow unconsciously, and motions for him to continue.

As I'm on the edge of my seat (and I'm standing- it's that intense) waiting for this colossal exception to one of Tala's many rules and restraints, the bastard flips into this harsh, hacking, Russian. I groan loudly. Both Problems, at the exact same moment, snap their heads towards me like a predator hunting for it's confused albeit worthy prey in complete silence.

"What are you _saying_? Speak _English_, it's America!"

"Speaking of which: go back to Canada."

Score? Tala: 10,009. Ray: -6.

Assy ignores me and continues whatever he was saying before I interrupted. Tala nods stiffly, seemingly analyzing every syllable coming out of Problem 2's mouth. My foot tapping up a storm, Assy glares at me, then it, and when I don't stop, switches to English.

"The paint is Valsper, so I'd appreciate it if you at least paid for the colour itself. The service, though, I'll do for free."

"Deal."

'What in God's green earth is Valsper?', you ask? Probably some brand name paint. How should I know? I can barely afford shoelaces, let alone paint designed by some French guy who spends more time perfecting the exact texture and colour of his smear than I do on the toilet.

"Go with Kon," Tala instructs while digging out all the ripped, preferred swatches from his waist purse. "His is the only room I haven't gone through yet. Help him pick something…" Russian here, Russian there, "even though he's got decent taste…" Russian, and Russian. Assy sighs and looks morosely at me, and sighs again. Either he's a heavy smoker and has trouble exhaling, or he just plain doesn't enjoy the sight of little ol' Ray.

With a few mumbled Slavic words, Tala hands Assy the large rings that hold the smear samples, and the later nods. "I know this is a different paint brand, but Valspar will have all the colours your looking for. Trust me."

Tala returns the gesture. Assy instructs me to follow him, and with completely uncontrolled steps, we both nearly skip into my room, wanting the process over with.

"I don't want to paint my room." My eyes glaze over the sturdy forest green walls with a sense of comfort. After being used to something so smooth and gentle, anything else would probably end up giving me a headache.

"You should," Assy murmurs, seemingly distracted and he expertly sifts through the samples of colour, lowering himself to the carpeted floor. "This kind of green invokes a sense of primal serenity that'll drive you crazy in a couple of more weeks."

"What?" I challenge, disbelieving. "If it wanted to make me loopy, it would have done it by now."

Assy gives me a questioning look. Tempted to ask what he's thinking, I ignore it in pursue of my justification. "And I like the calming sensation. I work for a guy who can barely count to ten without taking his shoes off- I _need_ calming."

"Blue is much more relaxing," the extreme concentration on the work in front of him and the softness of his voice makes me lift my head in wonder at gaze at him in pure curiosity. How could anyone talk so highly and with so much conviction when it comes to paint? "Chemically, it releases a natural relaxant in your blood stream; our bodies are hardwired to feel better because of it."

My mouth has dropped of its own accord into a perfect little 'o' shape.

"Then again, you don't want to be near comatose," he says flatly, and drops the ring containing all the shades of blue. He gently stirs through the rest, looking for whatever it is he's thinking of. What I'm _dying_ to know he's thinking of. For some reason beyond me, I can't seem to find my voice; it appears lost inside my stomach, stitched into the tight little knot that can always be counted on when Assy… _Kai'_s around.

"Off white would be nice, too," His eyes light up with the spark of a child's fascination when he picks up the correct ring, straining through it until he finds the ideal one. "Yes… this is what I'm looking for." He jabs his finger at the sample. "It's a not exactly off-white colour, not quite gray. It's kind of like sterling pearl, but it has a flowing, silvery, translucent tint."

I seat myself right beside him and glimpse at the shade that's got him so mystified. It's nice; appealing to the eyes. But, I mean… it's a _colour_. He's staring lovingly at this tiny little sample of dye like a previously infertile mother would at her newborn child. Is there something beyond my mere non-immortal eyes? I squint at it, trying to see what he's seeing, but undoubtedly fail.

"It's perfect." He states happily then looks casually into my eyes for simple approval.

But, when has Ray Kon ever been simple? Everything in my Godforsaken life has to be complicated, doesn't it? I just have to blush , red like a tomato, when this guy whose guts I cannot stand gives me a fleeting glance, don't I? I just _have _to entirely overlook my up-and-coming date with a great friend whose company I truly enjoy, huh? Really, there is _nothing_ more I need than to question all my motives with Brooklyn and completely rethink my entire view on a guy I've unjustifiably deemed a jackass, don't I?

"…You don't like it." Kai says emphatically, misjudging my silence for disapproval.

"No, no," I say, and my voice sounds like a stranger's in my own eyes. I clear my throat. "It's a nice colour, so go for it." I pause before adding, "You seem pretty into it."

He smiles a bit condescendingly, and my heart runs a marathon around my chest, while my conscious berates my physical reaction. Brooklyn, Brooklyn! Remember him? The sweet, handsome, smart, caring guy whose heart is about to crack into two if you don't stop pinning over some nobody?

"I should be into it. It'd be a problem if I wasn't," he says, rolling all the swatches back into place.

"What'dya mean?"

He looks at me with a very patient expression, expecting me to make the connection. When I do nothing but blink owlishly, he cuts me some slack by filling me in, "It's what I do. I'm an artist."

"An artist?" I ask, tilting my head to the side. "Do you mean an actual artist or, like a painter?"

"Both," he says flippantly. I've never heard him say more than a few words in English before, and now that I have, I have an adamant inkling to keep him talking as long as possible. "But more so the first. I only do house calls for friends and family who are a bit shortchanged in the cash department. It's very boring," He says, frowning in distaste. "There's no creativity or skill needed at all. But, then again, a job's a job…"

With the vast vocabulary provided by the wonder that is the English language, I manage to muster up:

"Oh."

I twitch a bit when he spontaneously laughs, with a carefree glee. Then, the little voice in my head offhandedly informs me that I've never heard him laugh before. I've been missing out- on his words, his laugh, that light in his eyes- for all this time. Wrinkles mar my forehead as I try to think back to the beginning of my whole escapade to this damned country, wondering why I could hate Kai so much. What's wrong with him. What'd he _do _that stuck such a plank up my ass?

"What are you thinking about?" He asks, probably noticing the stress nearly digging a whole into my forehead.

I bite my lip in hesitation.

His face morphs into a bluntly unimpressed expression. "It's about me, isn't it?"

"No," I say, somehow managing to vocalize a crack in my voice over _two_ letters.

He now looks generally annoyed, and consequently done with the conversation. Halfway standing up, I decide to open up a little in prevention of further belittling his opinion of me.

"I was wondering…"

He stays squatting awkwardly in a mid-air stance, uncomfortable. "Uh huh?"

"Well..." I draw out, trying to lure him into sitting back down. I pat the floor beside me, and he settles right back into his seat, not so much as moving an inch once accommodated. Kai gazes intently at my face, waiting for me to continue.

"Do you remember how we met?" I ask, after some deliberation. In my humble opinion, _'D'ya know why I hate your guts?'_ would have been a bit too out there.

"Yes," he says, looking… judgmental. Judgmental? Why's he looking judgmental? All _I_ remember is that we met on the day I ran away. What the hell in he _thinking_? "It was at Starbucks. People at work still talk about it."

I'm not surprised. I'm fully capable of being an international public menace on my best of days, let alone my worst.

"You don't remember?"

"No. I'm trying to, though. I was going through a really hard time that day…"

"I thought you were a nutcase."

Blunt honesty, thy name is Hiwatari.

"You came in just… staring at everything," Kai spoke, rather animatedly. I'd never expected such a concrete way of speaking from such a quiet person. "Your eyes were wide when you took everything in. I remember," he trailed on, seeming only to recall right at this moment, "I noticed you at first because it was freezing outside, and you didn't even come in with a jacket."

Funny how I remember none of this. Since I tend to shelve back the embarrassing highlights of my days into the back of my memory, only about… oh, I don't know, the _unconscious _parts of it remain in storage. I remember most of my dreams like the back of my hand. My actual day? Not so much.

"You came up to the counter with this fleeting look, and then you saw me." He stopped there and glared at me. "It was like you'd never seen a person before in your life. That whole… haphazard look from before just disappeared and you started acted friendly. But forgetful. I told you to take your coffee about fifty times but it seemed like you didn't want to leave."

As I waited for more of this strange tale about this dotting idiot that was supposed to be me, I realized he was finished. I looked at my hands, which were clasped in my lap, and back up into those blood red eyes. I can't help put notice the bullhorn-size bruise defacing the otherwise perfect skin, and frown a little. "It was my first day here."

"What do you mean by _here_?" Kai asked, entirely too interested. It was then and there I realized that he generally seems to be a very intense person. Whatever he does or says, he takes with full seriousness.

"America," I clarify. "Didn't Tala tell you anything about me?" He shook his head, and I sighed. "My parents…"

I couldn't say it. I just couldn't bring myself to say it all over again. Acutely, I'm able to feel the stab of a huge carving knife running it's blade over my heart and soul when I talk about it. My parents, who I've loved and trusted for my whole 19 years, just kicked me out. Just like that. For something so stupid! It's been weeks now, and I haven't heard a damn word from them. I thought at least my mom would be looking for me, but I was entirely disappointed when I realized that wasn't the case. I checked the news- no missing children reports for anything that even _remotely_ resembled me. They didn't care. Why should they? I'm _gay_, after all. I bet they're hoping I'm off rotting in a ditch somewhere.

"You don't have to…" when I lift my head to look at him, something in my expression makes his soften much to quickly to be his standard. "It's okay. We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

"No," I said, shaking my head. I want to tell him, even though it's physically painful. For some reason I couldn't comprehend, I just wanted him to _know _me. I take a deep breath and say, "I'm gay. My devout Catholic parents kicked me out because I'm gay."

"Jesus," he breaths.

"Tell me about it."

He smiles sympathetically.

…Well, that was _so_ not worth it.

"I guess they're really kicking themselves now," he murmurs almost to himself.

"What do you mean?"

"Look where you are." He gestures to the luxurious bed, the brand name furniture, the lofty space itself. "One of the most highly accredited condos in the Upper East Side. _The Upper East Side_." He stretches the words, adding a powerful sense of pride. "I bet you're better off here than you were there."

…Sure, that's one way to put it.

I'm about to respond with some half ass agreement when all I hear is a 'BOOM' louder than a boulder falling onto a bullhorn, followed by a string of Russian curses.

I turn wide-eyed to Kai, to see a look of perfected innocence on his face. Ah, trusty bullshit detector, how handy you come at times.

"What did you _do_?" I ask scrupulously.

"I might have_, possibly_, left a couple of tons of expired Bavarian coffee beans in the middle of the living room, where I continued to turn off all source of light to preserve energy."

I twisted my lip before asking, "Do you think he tripped over it?"

Kai's face goes completely blank before saying, "I think he toppled over it and landed on his collarbone like a fat chick falling off the Grand Canyon."

I snort as the image. "Should we go help him?"

He smiles wickedly. "Naaaah."

* * *

Bonding, who doesn't love it?

Read _and_ Review, please.


	8. The One Where They Talk

**Author**: Neiize

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Beyblade or anything else that brings in a sufficient amount of money, for that matter. What I do own is the storyline and plot that go on in my story and the occasional OC, but that is all. I write for the sake of writing, and nothing more.

**Warning**: Language

**Author's Notes**: Kill me. Throw me down a well and leave God or leprechauns or whoever it is who answers all the wishes that litters the bottoms of those things to beat me senseless because it's been nearly half a god damned year since I updated. HALF A YEAR!

Since that's absolutely ridiculous (and since I really do love you guys for still reviewing/favouriting even through the story seems defunct, _which it is not_), I've decided to strike a deal with myself: update every two weeks. Yeah, it's not the greatest, but keep in mind that I am literally never on the computer unless I'm doing school work and that having a social life leaves little time for tucking yourself behind a keyboard.

Beyond that, this chapter in particular is really…weird. I don't know, I read back some of my older chapters and found that I wanted to douse myself in hot oil because it royally sucked. I think my writing style has changed a bit (though not drastically, so don't go flinging yourself off a cliff if you're into _Correlation_ that much), but the plot I had in mind is still the same. I think that my writing from here on out will be a 180 turn (vocab particularly) from previous chapters, so don't be surprised if things flow a bit differently or sound off. Or maybe it's exactly the same and all in my head.

Last note: this chapter is relatively short and unedited because I wanted to get it up ASAP.

Enjoy, fuckers.

* * *

The One Where They Talk

* * *

"Well, well, well,-"

"Shut up."

"He came down on you like the merciless hand of God, didn't he?"

"I said shut _up_, Tala."

Glaring out the window, I can feel the whirlwind that are my emotions tumbling through my every organ.

"I told you not to do it," he lectures. "I told you it would end badly."

Tears blur the edges of the window pane, and Tala's sneering takes a backseat to the bile which is burning the back of my throat. I swallow painfully, but the sweltering lump refuses to budge.

"Hey," he says suddenly, taking account my pained expression, "you don't look so good."

"I don't feel so damn good either," I retort, realizing my pride is the only thing left to salvage. I clear my throat, wipe my eyes, and straighten my spine. "I know you don't care, Ivanov, but I'd appreciate it if you at least didn't kick me while I was down."

"I think I was more 'pouring salt on the wounds'."

"You're an asshole."

He smiles sadly. "What else is new?"

Because panes of glass have suddenly become a topic of pure fascination, I never once let my gaze falter. Tala, one who does not know when to leave well enough alone, proves himself to be one of the most persistent assholes I know by continuing.

"Look, what did you expect?"

Silence.

No, I don't mean I expected dead air on the other line. I mean I'm just too annoyed to answer.

For some reason beyond logic, Tala has taken a seat next to me on my mattress, attempting to comfort me. The redhead showing signs of compassion is scarcer than Britney Spear showing signs of talent while performing, so this is a real treat for me. Too bad a little thing called 'collapsed family ties' is weighing down my appreciation.

"A little humanity."

Okay, I lied about being annoyed. I'd rather tongue Mr. Pedo than admit I just didn't know how to answer.

He scoffs, not missing a beat. "Knowing your father, and also knowing that 'human' is the root word of 'humanity', expecting even a little of it is a stretch."

I stir at that, suspicious. "You don't _know_ my father."

Rolling his eyes, which calms me down fractionally because the sight of Asshole Tala is somehow more comforting than Nice Tala (probably because the later is only existent in an alternate dimension, meaning that I'm currently cruising the Milky Way without an oxygen tank), he says, "From the bare minimum you've told me, I can draw my own conclusions."

"I wish I could draw."

"…What the hell?"

"Really," I murmur in a soft voice, pitifully holding back a fresh wave of tears, "it would be nice, just to be an artist on the loose. Drawing what you see and getting by on a dime. Depending on yourself and living on your own whim. Not having to care about anything else in the world. _Anyone_ else."

"Oh, come on," he growls, suddenly agitated, "get the hell over it. Your dad shunned you plenty before you left, and a couple of bigot words two months afterwards shouldn't even make a dent."

"Fuck you. You don't know half of the hell I'm going through."

"Oh, I do, Kon, sadly, I do. I've been sitting back watching you dance around in this country without a care in that fucking head of yours. And then when one little thing goes slightly amiss, it's a day of national mourning in your eyes."

Stuck between wanting to gauge his eyeballs out with my thumb or waiting until work tomorrow so I can get my hands on some corrosive hydrochloric acid, I simply decide to null both and ball my fists. Buddha himself would take a chainsaw to Tala's pretty little throat, whereas I, who has known, been sheltered, and befriended by redhead for 8 weeks… would take the entire American Armed forces and maybe even O.J. himself if ever given the opportunity.

"Besides, you're gonna have to cheer the hell up if you're planning on going through with tonight."

Why yes, I did plan on living tonight. How thoughtful of you to check up on me.

"We should get you something to wear…" he trails off mysteriously.

This somewhat drags me out the depressing pool of macabre that is my life, because as we all know I am more curious than namesake George himself. But, I still have no idea what in God's green earth he is talking about, or why he even felt it appropriate to change the topic with this string of pointless words(see: all of Tala's speech). Catching my blank stare, he glares, trying to spark my memory.

Then, it suddenly hits me:

Huh?

He firms the look.

And then, a pure bolt of educated lightening:

Huuuuuuuuuuuuuh?

"Your date," he practically growls.

Oh!

"Ohhhhhhhh!"

I got it more the second time around.

"That poor slob doesn't know what he's getting himself into," Tala says, said slob being Brooklyn and that other thing he referred to being me.

"Gross, Tala! He's not getting _into me_, you pervert."

Pinching the bridge of his nose tight enough to cut off oxygen flow (which I may think was his aim to begin with), Tala looks like an excellent candidate as poster boy for Advil's new ultra-effective migraine killing pill. Either that or he's just pissed off. Five on the first option!

"You're really pissing me off, Kon."

…Double or nothing next time!

"Tala, how come it doesn't bug you that I'm gay?"

Leading me down the central hallway, we emerge into the dinning room, weave through the living, and end our voyage at the kitchen. As always, I am given a semi-permanent eye ulcer by the thousand watt light bulbs that would have Greenpeace foaming at the mouth. I rub my eyes, willing them to adjust as Tala swings opens the refrigerator.

"We've already talking about this, Kon," Tala replies, nearly making out with the back of the fridge.

"No, we haven't." I say, because I've wanted to bring up this completely non-awkward topic (cough) for a while. "We've talked about you, indeed, not having a problem with my faggotry-"he makes a weird noise at this term "-but not _why_ you don't have a problem with it."

Reemerging with two beers in his hand, he slides one down the counter, nudging it into the crook of my elbow, and cranks open the other. "What the hell is this, metaphysics? I don't know why, Kon. I just don't."

It's a really nice day. The sun's shinning bright and high in the sky even though it's early February, and a stray blue jay (random fact: sometimes when I rhyme by accident I get giddy) soars by seamlessly. No, I don't have x-ray vision (but, considering my birth name, it's a crime that I don't): I'm staring out the glass doors which lead to our balcony, where Ass- _Kai _has left some easels to dry, cloth draped over the parchment for protection. Tala notices my preoccupation.

"You wouldn't know how cold it is outside by looking," says Aristotle.

"Mmm," I agree, tilting my head, trying to peer underneath the striped blankets. I wonder what he drew.

Noticing my unexplained spinal disfigurement, he follows my gaze, sipping from his beer. "You okay, Kon?"

"Mmm," I repeat, now considering hiring a lawyer, because in times like these it _really _is a crime that I don't have x-ray vision.

"'Mmm?' You haven't even tasted your beer and you already love it."

"Mhmmmmmmmmmm."

I'm feeling rather articulate today.

"Fixing it with your unrelenting gaze won't tell you what it is," Tala nudges his elbow in the direction of the easels, downing the dregs of his beer.

Blinking out of it, I frown.

"Thinking about Brooklyn?" he asks sarcastically.

Everything I know about Kai can fill up a line in a notebook, namely that: Kai Hiwatari is an artist who is Russian. I take it back: half a line. This guy has been my roommate (see: walking wet dream) for nearly two months and I don't even know how old he is. Aside from the fact that he is hotter than the core of the sun and possibly even Tala's temper over the Super Bowl results, he also happens to be a very eloquent, talented, and possibly even humble guy. I find it disconcerting that we live a couple of steps away from each other but have little to no extended contact, and by disconcerting I mean God damn annoying.

Pushing my _blatantly obvious _boner for him aside, the way we've been interacting has just been down right rude. Since he's not socially retarded, I think he'd be willing to shove back whatever difficulties we had before and start on a new slate. It's not just for my sake: who doesn't want to gain a new friend, right? Personally, having more than two friends would really be a dream, because Brooklyn is more like a love interest, and if you count Tala as a 'friend', I have a few bridges to sell you. And I don't exactly see Kai sashaying up and down the apartment with a party of 30 flanking him; to be honest, he seems to be kind of a loner. I bet he'd _love_ a new friend.

All and all, yes, I think I will break out of my drooling stupor and answer Tala, who looks _this close_ to having me institutionalized.

"What?" I sputter brilliantly, completely redeeming myself (cough).

I find myself immobilized by a glare darker and fouler than Satan's stool sample.

"Stop. Being. A. Lunatic."

Tala's vocabulary is rather disjointed today.

"Why are you talking like that?"

"Just emphasizing my words. Nutcases need that extra time to link thoughts together, you know? Wait, what am I saying? Of _course _you know." He smiles sweetly for the first time since I've known him, but it quickly drops back into the scowl that is permanently plastered on his face.

"…So, about my outfit for tonight," I manage, still trying to stomach the bitter taste of being owned.

"It's too late to go out," Tala murmurs so softly that I think he was talking to himself. He's nursing the second drink that was meant to be mine, giving a momentary glance at the grandfather clock visible from the living room. "We'll just have to throw together something of mine."

"For the top, I guess that's okay. But you've got a good two feet on me, and I don't really have any dressy pants."

"Kai's not that much taller than you," he muses, eyeing me up and down, even though I'm sitting. I'm telling you: Russians are immortal, and have powers like premeditated height and unlimited alcohol tolerance and not ever rusting, _ever_, and the likes. Once, just a couple of days into my stay in Americaland, Kai referred to breathing and blinking as a "trivial" part of his day, and I knew something was up.

Then a week later, Tala was at some conference in Cincinnati where he was accompanying the _Archbishop Desmond Tutu_ (my jaw nearly cracked the pavement when he showed me a picture of them practically hugging), and one thing led to another and Tala ended up being flung onto a concrete wall at an insurmountable speed. What a zamboni was doing inside a conference hall, I will never know, but in the end, he was unscathed. The only proof of his plight was the miniscule nick gracing his forehead, which shocked the dispatched paramedics beyond belief. One had even demanded that Tala explain the physics of his fall, which is stupider than asking a convicted criminal to walk themselves to the electric chair. Asking Tala to expand on a topic he isn't even interested is a very fine way of getting your ass lectured from here and back, which is the moral the paramedic learned that day.

In conclusion, when exchanging a string of intelligible words with a Slavic fellow, neglect from raising the issue of their uncouth etiquette if you value existence.

To my fellow simpletons: don't fuck with Russians.

Speaking of 'fuck' and 'Russians', in walks Kai, hugging a pound of some variety of coffee to his chest for dear life. Pitching his keys onto the kitchen counter, he drops the contained beans onto the slab of marble before scrounging through the cabinet with the candy, or as I like to call it, the Candy Cabinet. Why yes, originality _is_ my middle name.

"Blah blah blah blah blah bloop bloop bloop."

Okay, so that's not really what Tala says, but it might as well be because he's not articulating his words properly and I can't make out a damn thing he's saying.

"Privyet," returns Kai, which I've learned means 'hello'. Or was it 'goodbye'? Why is Kai ending the conversation? Are they fighting? Mental exhaustion taking its toll, I begin to formulate all the possibilities of their conversation until I have somehow convinced myself that Kai is an undercover KGB spy who is planning to use his top-cop status to have Tala eradicated from the face of the earth with an expired license to kill, until a certain someone notices a certain other someone being a certainly big nuisance.

Making the most of my summary skills: Kai, utilizing a moment to become aware of his surroundings, becomes perturbed when he notices my staring.

Tala, having had more than enough of me for the better of part of a year, let alone _today_, barks, "Kon, cancel that date. You're in no state to be in public today."

"Is he ever in the right state to be in public?" Kai asks around a mouthful of Skittles.

"Rarely," responds Tala. "Some days, I get my hopes up, thinking he's adapted some social skills, and then he goes skipping around the place, clutching a god damn Furbie in one hand and a TV remote in the other like his life depended on it."

The _one day_ I go to the flea market and find a couple good deals, Tala decides to jubilate humanity and brand _me_ as a freak by staying home. The_ one day._

By now Kai has taken to leveling me with an unimpressed look and Tala is flicking a beer can on its side, causing it to scrape the marble counter top ominously. With the utmost certainty, I can say that this is us at our most entertaining. It's weird with us all together, but in distinct pairs, it's a different story. See, when it's Tala and I, we have a hoot, and we're not even owls. We have a pretty vast repertoire of things and people and such to discuss, which inadvertently strengthens our friendship. Kai and I avoid each other like an AIDS infected plague, but Tala and Kai have been friends since the formation of Pangaea and get along better than bothers most of the time. Combined as a trio, however, we become as merry and gay as Hulk Hogan on a steroid overdose.

"Hey, Kai, could I borrow a pair of your pants?"

Seeing as I suddenly cut into their conversation on Kai's part of the rent which is due tomorrow and which he cannot pay and which they were heatedly negotiating about, they both shoot me annoyed glances.

"Hey, I have a date in…holy shit!"

"Not the best choice for a first date. It smells pretty bad," Kai the Comedian quips.

"No," I stress, glancing again at the treacherous clock to make sure I'm not seeing things, "I have to be there in 15 minutes."

"Just call him and tell him you'll be late," Tala suggests with a heavy sigh.

"Isn't that I rude?" I ask nervously, blinking rapidly despite the fact that my eyes are plenty moisturized.

"I think it's _more_ rude if you show up looking like a foot because you rushed out."

_Looking like a foot_? What is that supposed to mean? How does one go about resembling a foot if that was their whim? And most importantly, where the hell does Tala come up with this stuff?

"Back of my van."

Tala found a foot in the back of his van? Wait, he _owns_ a van? Well, at least it's big enough to fit his ego. Sound choice, Ivanov, sound choice.

"Alright, Kon, let's go."

I now realize from the changes in pitch that Kai is the one who has the van, not Tala. I also realize that I now have only 10 minutes to get there, and Tala waving his car keys seductively before the open front door is enough of a kick in the butt to get me going.

-----  
**Author's note:** Interaction with Ray and his family is very limited. Keep in mind, he ran away from home: they are totally unaware of his whereabouts, and Ray wants to keep it that way. Use your imagination when it comes to Ray's conversation with his dad.

Read and Review, please.


	9. The One With the Date

"Sorry for not updating in years, blah blah blah. I've been really busy, bull crap bull crap bull crap."

You should thank _tntiggris's _recent review for this update. It's been sitting in my documents folder, half done, and I thought the least I could do is update it for anyone who still cares.

If anyone still reads this, I wouldn't mind continuing. Otherwise, call it defunct.

Enjoy.

* * *

The One With the Date

* * *

"Tala, what the hell is this?"

"It's a bloody washcloth, Kon."

Yeah, thanks for the clarification, because before I thought it was it was Celine Dion.

"Well, fucking duh. I mean what the hell is it doing in your car?"

Prodding a corner of the pristine hankie with my wallet, I grimace. Being a bio-med student really helps at times like these: the blood is congealed, and from the way the protein markers are curdled, it looks about two weeks old. Sure as hell, Tala uses his car every damn day; did he not have enough common sense to clean, or even throw this thing out? And how the hell did he manage to nick himself that badly? Forget nick; he must have hacked a limb off to draw that much blood. The scrap of fabric is drenched.

I do a once over on Tala, confirm that he is not an amputee, notice the lack of bulge in his crotch area, look back at the beyond-bloodied handkerchief, and piece two and two together.

My immediate thought is:

L-O-L.

Followed by:

Blow job gone horribly, horribly wrong?

And yes, stalling the thought of the impending date is _much_ easier than I thought it would be.

"Generally, inanimate things don't move without some sort of external force applying pressure onto it. Henceforth, it remains in the car, as I did not apply said pressure to remove it from the general area of my automobile."

Successfully having taken a good decade and any sanity left off of my life, Tala smirks at my glare, tosses Bloth (bloody cloth) into the back seat, and starts the car. "Getting in may be a good option at the moment, but I think I'm just nitpicking."

Settled and now cruising an unholy 80 km/h down residential streets, I watch the purple and pinks in the sky mesh together and form an eventual navy (how this works out colour-wise, I've got no clue; where's Kai when you need him?). The thoughts of Bloth and Tala's stub of a dick are pushed back along with the sun in the horizon, and I wonder if The Big 'Ol Softy in the clouds is laughing His Holy Ass off at the sight of me in Tala's and Kai's white-people clothes. Up until a half hour ago, I thought Gucci was the sound you made at newborns, not a_ brand of clothing. _To make matters worse, Tala's Russian Skills must need to some honing because Kai and I are no where near the same height, as indicated by the too-long pants I am now wearing. Maybe now Tala and I can bond some more as amputee brothers.

When I notice the tiny tear in Kai's pants (and yes, I am giddy at the thought of being able to say that I've been in Kai's pants), and remember his appearance as of late altogether, my mind sparks.

"Hey, Tala?"

Do you have to pee like a girl now because you can't maneuver the nub that once used to be your ding-a-ling?

"_What_, Kon?

Thank God the one neuron I still have left is at work tonight, because if I had just said _that_, I'd be reporting all this in the confines of the Emergency Room, all while watching my own story on the breaking news, entitled: _Miracle Man Survives Being Thrown from Moving Car._

Aw, what the hell am I saying? Really, I don't depict Tala as the kind of guy he really is. He'd never do that.

… He wouldn't spring for a band-aid, let alone a hospital room with a TV, for _me_ of all people. You must be new around here.

"Why does Kai looked so...roughed up?"

Tala seems unfazed, calming me a bit, and listens as I continue.

"It's healed and shit since last week, put he's part albino so you can still see some of the bruises and stuff. Did he-"

"How did you know that?"

"...Because I have fully functioning eyes? It makes him look like his inner black guy is coming to the surface in small patches."

"No, you idiot, not about the bruises." He sighs not once, but twice. "How did you know he was part albino?"

"He's really part albino? I was just making a joke."

The way I say it comes out way too interested, so I immediately clear my throat and speak deeper.

"He doesn't look albino."

Considering the fact that I am not Morgan Freeman, Tala is not impressed with my new, manly voice.

"Are you going under hormone therapy that I'm not aware of, Kon?" He glances at my hips, then says, "It would explain a lot."

Score? Tala: 10,010. Ray: -6.

"No," I pause, trying to come up with something witty. Unfortunately, I tend to panic under stress, and out comes:

"No, cause your mom used all of it up."

I think pigs are flying, members of the KKK are rejoicing over Obama's presidency, and that millions of geeks, losers, and douche bags around the word are getting laid by chicks completely out of their league, because the glare Tala has shot me is so cold that hell _has_ to have frozen over.

"You know, I'm glad she has, because the very little you've already had makes it looks like your face caught fire and you tried to put it out with a fork. Oh, wait," he says, pondering animatedly when he catches a red light, "That's how you looked to begin with. I suppose you didn't get your money's worth."

My scoreboard has burst into flame, and if this were Tala's head, I would be trying to extinguish it with cutlery right about now. We have a winner, ladies and gentlemen.

"You're not helping my confidence, you dick," I say, eyeing the clock. Eight minutes has passed by since we got into the van. "We're almost there and I'm shitting enough bricks to rebuild Haiti."

The sound of paint cans clanking together somewhere behind me is loud enough to blot out Tala's response.

Aw, shit. That's right; Kai is painting my room when I get back home. Forgot about the renovating, huh? Considering I come home from Hell (the cheery nickname I have given to what I previously called 'work') everyday to see stepladders, grout, a ripped out living room, and samples of every home-renovating decor item possible, forgetting is as possible as Tala going sober.

I volunteered to go first because I just wanted to get it out of the way. Little did I know (and really, when do I ever know more than little?)that this meant it would take a few day's preparations to actually paint the goddamn room, which will take a day itself to dry. I had the lovely pleasure of shoving everything to the centre of the room (ever since I hopped the border, I quit working out, and Dakota Fanning could beat me in an arm wrestling match, so you could imagine the hernia I gave myself moving a king sized bed, couch, computer table, armoire, and two side tables).

Then I had to cover each stick of furniture in an individual tarp, and throw a huge plastic sheet over all of them together. This was after clearing the room of clutter, vacuuming, mopping, and the subsequent bruised ass from slipping on Mr. Clean, by the by. It was pretty bad; if you stuck my ass and Kai's face together, the deep bruising would make them look like twins.

Yes, my ass is that cute. Being humble is for straight people.

Now that I think about it, this is all considering if I even come home tonight. If the date goes well, I could very well be spending the night at Brooklyn's.

"So you said he was albino?"

I'll say anything to get that out of my head.

"We're almost there," Tala says offhandedly before making a left.

"It makes sense. No one can be that pale and be normal."

"Look, Kon, I wasn't supposed to tell you that. I thought you already knew. Don't bring it up in front of Kai, alright? He gets touchy. _What?_" He tacks on when I simply stare at him.

"You care?"

Tala pulls into the parking lot behind the restaurant.

"You give a flying poop about someone else's feelings?"

He circles the place, trying to find an empty spot, doing an excellent job at ignoring me, but falters when his regal brow lifts upon hearing 'flying poop'.

"Tala, tell me I'm wrong," I plead desperately, my entire reality shattering to bits, with the hollow clinking noises from the paint cans making it sound stupider than it is.

"You're wrong, Kon. You're always wrong. And completely, without question, mentally unstable as well. Were you dropped as a child?"

He finds an opening and parks.

"The prick button is on 24/7 with you, isn't it?"

"Brooklyn's waiting," Tala gestures at him, where he is sitting against the all-glass walls of the restaurant.

Wait a cotton-picking minute…

"How do you know Brooklyn?"

"I don't, Kon. You just blab about him so much that I know what the poor slob with the heinous taste looks like."

Never do I remember really talking about Brooklyn, let alone in depth… but then again, my memory is as sharp as a marshmallow. Damn it, I should really work on some of those memory games. I wouldn't remember my own damn name if Tala didn't tack it on at the end of every vodka-scented sentence.

"Thanks for the ride," I say as I step out, but before I shut the door, a murmur irks at me to stay put.

"Did you say something?" I ask, opening the passenger door halfway.

"That bloody handkerchief," he repeats, smirking. "This is Kai's van. Try asking him about it sometime."

When the corners of Tala's mouth so much as twitch upwards, I urgently develop a serve case of explosive diarrhea. You can imagine that seeing his full-fledged, not to mention _evil_ smile, has got me in internal hysterics that would put a certified schizophrenic to shame. I consider repeatedly punching myself in the face to ease the pain.

"What in the hell is wrong with you?" He asks, because I've been doing nothing but staring into oblivion. Expertly throwing a tissue box at my forehead, I release hold of the door. He slams it back into place and speeds off.

Staring at exhaust fumes, I shiver the last of my bone-chilling fear off and begin the walk around to the front door.

As a gay man, I've got to say: Tala is _so_ queer. His intricate cryptic messaged are something left to be solved by trained federal agents, not a runaway teenagers who barely has control over his basic cognitive function. Why does he keep dropping them when he clearly knows I have a better chance at wrapping my head around Botswanian interpretive dance than anything remotely deep or challenging?

And what do I care about about that hanky, anyways? Kai's an artist, and as we all know, artists are completely nuts and do illogical things like cut their ears off in the name of love or watch reality television. Either of which could explain the blood; I could fully justify offing myself with a pocketknife if faced with a _Keeping Up With the Kardashians_ marathon.

And, I mean, on a serious note, he paints houses- you've got to use sandpaper and those weird cake-knife looking things to pick up plaster, and walking around in somewhere that needs to be painted is usually so infested with clutter- including things like hammers, nails, electric saws, and other natural enemies to human appendages- that spilling some blood is just as likely as blinking.

...But what if in reality Kai got in trouble with the cops and they had to bruise him up a bit before slammin' his no-good-ass in the slammer?

"Why the long face?"

Uh, genetics? Jesus, and this guy is one of the brains behind the cure to cancer? And who the hell cares, anyway? I wonder if Kai did something ridiculously bad -I mean domestic disturbance bad- to warrant that much blood….

Then I'm slapped back down to reality by the hand of God, and even though I'm late, should be apologizing for said faux pas, look strange in these clothes that aren't me, didn't have time to brush the horrid mess on my head that others unwittingly refer to as 'hair', and apparently look upset, all I can think of saying to put him at ease is:

"… Hi."

I guess Tala isn't so queer, because he posed the questions first.

What the _hell_ is wrong with me?

"Hi," he returned with a guilty smile. "I was watching you walk up. Thought I'd help you the rest of the way."

I smile, trying to shake off everything out of my head, and walk inside.

* * *

"I would never know how to… handle it."

"You don't handle cancer, Brooklyn. You just accept it."

"Not anymore. We _can_ handle it, now that we've got a shot. But what if we tell our very first patient that it might cure his cancer, and it ends up failing? I couldn't crush a person's hope like that. A _dying _person's hope like that."

"You know what I remember?"

Brooklyn takes a bite of his ravioli, and chews. I survey the new-age restaurant, with it's glass walls, tables that match the silver-wear, and the starched and stiff staff as he gestures for me to continue.

"About two or three years ago, my cousin was in training to become a cop. He's six years older than me and thought that my humour was as funny as anal cancer, so we didn't talk a lot."

"But that's what he told me: you're as funny as anal cancer. And it hurts your pride, you know?"

Between bites, he says, "Why would it hurt your pride? Who cares?"

"Well, I'm sorry Mr. Fuck-it-all. We can't all be confident in our ego-mania."

"I'm not an ego maniac!"

I smile, because he said ego like Eggo, the waffle brand. "I'm an Aunt Jemima maniac, myself. No shame in hiding it."

Brooklyn's brows furrow, and before he can even think to wrap his pretty little head around this one, I continue. "I didn't like him much, and vice versa. So everytime we were ever forced to hang out by our parents, we didn't talk. We'd always find something else that was way more important to do; I'd play some stupid trial game on my phone, and he's suddenly find the texture of walls fascinating."

"But after the cop thing kind of fell through, he went into the army. He had sex with some girl without a rubber, and got HIV. And only after that did we become closer."

The corners of Brooklyn's mouth droop. "Because you realized how much you loved him?"

"Hell no," I respond, cutting into my steak. "He just started thinking I was really funny. And then I realized that with people like that -who've seen wars, who've got terminal diseases, who're crippled or drug addicts or dunks- they've just seen so much horrid shit in their lives that their threshold for what's funny is about as big as it can get. He got AIDS now, and he still calls it the butt flu. Cracks him up everytime."

"Why are you telling me this?"

I look Brooklyn in the eye to see agitation. He's stopped eating, waiting for an answer.

"Because, if worse comes to worse and this cure doesn't work, just say that his other chemo treatment will be effective. All he'll feel is hot flashes, no more urges for sex, and the dire need to find some cute new pumps... or something."

Brooklyn grins, and picks up his fork again.

* * *

"Just like how Muslims have to visit Mecca, all Russians must renovate a house to be complete."

"But this is a condo," I point out, watching Kai fill some holes in the wall with spackle.

"You have no depth perception," Kai counters.

What the hell?

"What does depth perception have anything to do with if it's a condo or a ho-"

Kai blasts his speakers to full volume, effectively shutting me up even though for once in my documented life, I am making a valid point without Tala having to bully me into finding it.

"You know that't not fair. For once, I had a thought that was right. You can't block me out!" I yell.

Kai only turns the volume dial up another notch, and responds, "A thought crossed your mind? Must have been long and lonely journey."

Why the hell is Assy on my goddamn case today?

* * *

Review, review, review, review, please.


	10. The One Where It Changes

**Author's Note: **Hope everyone had a good march break (or spring break, for the Americanos out there).

...Aaaaaaaaaaaand that about concludes it for the good news.

The bad: I've been more torn than Paris Hilton's record label contracts. Honest to God, I was so undecided about where I was taking this. I had two endings in mind that I couldn't even consider choosing between, so I kept stalling the goddamn story.

But I_ think_ I know what I'm going to do now. When we reach the end (see: 2075), I'll tell you the other alternate conclusion I had in mind. But, now that I think I know how it's going to finish, I recommend you stay buckled in. Maybe take a look back to notice all the weird little inconsistencies, and the subsequent clues they might have left behind. Maybe don't blame me for the 90 degree turn we're taking, because I've been hinting at it for years now. Maybe have some faith in me to take you on a shitty road, but get you to your final destination without a hitch.

What I'm trying to say is, expect some movement.

Maybe.

* * *

I come home after my morning coffee run only to be cozily greeted by the stink of alcohol, clothes strewed across the already torn-up living room, and Tala passed out across the couch so animatedly that Homer Simpson looks composed in comparison.

Setting down my cup of Starshmucks, I jab him in the neck with the handle of a nearby screwdriver. "Wake up, Tala."

This only succeeds in prodding out a burp, following by a butt-burp. The word 'fart' (cue the shiver) encompasses a whole other world of horror for me. Just a few weeks ago, Mr. Pedo released one that made nuclear waste smell like daffodils, and in the following weeks a number of my cognitive and motor functions declined rapidly. Standing upright is now exhausting, along with logical deduction and counting past ten, so I try not to relive the trauma by repeating the word. Butt-burp's better, anyways; it's got a _hyphen_. Did fart (Dear Lord_, the agony_) ever give you that?

Tala groans, rolling over.

"Beeeeeesmurch," he mumbles, rubbing his bloodshot eyes.

"How drunk are you, Tala?" I ask, talking so slowly that my tongue falls asleep halfway through. "Jesus, it's only 9 in the morning. I was only gone for an_ hour_. Are we gonna have to take you to get your stomach pumped again?"

"Ah, fuck nah! Um tally… uk-hay." He stretches, opens his eyes, panics at the sight of an upright world, and topples back onto the couch.

Apparently, Tala thinks the best way to prove he is not drunk is to act as impaired as humanly possible. Successfully earning himself an Oscar nomination, he goes on to guarantee a win when he doubles over and barfs into a brand-new, open can of Valspar paint. Thank God Kai wasn't here to witness this; he'd probably beat himself to a bloody pulp to ease the pain, and I am in no mood to deal with two messes.

"I dih-int have hoh-oogs this mornin," The Master of Linguistics pipes up, studying his upchucked breakfast like it's the first thing he has laid eyes upon in years. "Where's that cum frum?"

For some strange, curious, and totally unapparent reason, Tala appears to be slurring. This baffles me in a number of ways, as Tala's reputation for rejecting alcohol is well known amongst his friends, along with his tendency to be tolerant, understanding, and charitable to those less fortunate than him.

Trying to remind myself that he's drunk and that I should be consoling rather than insulting him, I regain composure. As such, the pitied look I shoot seems to offend him.

"You thin you bettah' than meh?" Tala yelps, trying to jab me in the chest, but ends up doing one hell of a job of intimidating the lampshade to his right.

"No, Tala. Just go sleep."

"You don know meh!" He yells at the lamp, offended that it would just up and _assume_ he sleeps.

"It's fer yur own gewd," he continues jovially, suddenly riveted by his new best friend, Lampy. "I hat you 'fore, buh now, is uh-kay, Ray!"

At first I'm pleased that he recognizes my voice, then realize he only thinks I'm the lamp because it's yellow. He starts spewing some more bullshit and my patience shrinks to the size of Tala's apparent interest in sobriety.

"Kai'ssssssssssss lookin out fer ya!" He laughs, and burps again. "Can drill ya if I hav ta. Fuck yer nana."

Coincidently, I step over a drill as I try to heave him over my shoulder.

"Rape!" Tala screams, clawing at the lampshade, even though I'm coming at him from the opposite angle.

It takes a good fifteen minutes, but by some miracle personally delivered by the hand of God, I manage to drag Tala out of the living room, haul him past the dinning, shove him down the hallway, prod him into his room, and coax him into bed by chucking a nearby Armani watch onto his sheets. Like a dog after a bone, he gallops onto the bed, stuffing the prized position into his pants. And really, who needs pockets? This is much more convenient, as our Champ drooling onto the duvet over here can now know the hour and commit sexual assault in the same second. Time efficiency, thy name is Ivanov.

"I did it alllllllllll by maself," he boasts, causing the local dogs at the park rear their heads in jealously.

The redhead seems so pleased with himself. I feel like rewarding him with my own watch to keep him temporarily docile, but as I do not appreciate seeing the only thing of real value I own defaced by up-and-coming vomit, I take a different course of action.

"Tala, you need to sleep this o-"

"Whyyyyyyyyyy is life so herd?" Tala asks, dismayed by our farmer lifestyle. Life is very herd, indeed.

"Listen to me," I practically growl, resting my hands on the memory-foam mattress. The shape it takes surprises me; I never took myself for someone who could let the claws out when they're mad. "Go to bed. You'll regret it tomorrow if you don't try to sleep it off now."

Squinting, he blinks. Even with his eyes in slits, it's clear to see his pupils dilated to the size of the state itself. It's hard to believe he's even conscious.

"Nah, yooooou lissen tah meh," he barks, finger waggling. Like a gentleman, he reaches into his pants and pulls out his watch. "My."

"Your what? Your watch?"

"Ya, _my_," he proclaims, stuffing it back into his pants.

I have to think about it before it hits me.

"Oh. You mean _mine_?"

"Nah, my! Nah yous! _My_!" He screeches, insulted by my audacity.

A small throb invites itself onto my front temporal lobe like a shitty new neighbour would into my home. "Tala, I'm only going to say this once: go to bed."

"Hhhhuhhhhh!" he gasps, pointing past me, eyes wide and alight with terror.

I look behind my back, expecting Godzilla, a shoot-out, Kai fully clothed, or other crimes against humanity. Confirming that there is nothing behind us, I explain this slowly to the drunkard. Yet Tala feels it appropriate to continue pointing and exclaim:

"Da popo!"

So many sharp objects about, just _screaming_ my name…

"No, Tala. No cops. No popo. Just go to sleep." I press him down gingerly by the shoulders, which is a last measure when it comes to Drala (Drunk Tala).

He protests (and by protests I mean burps continuously) until he is much too docile to try anything else. Within the span of fifteen minutes, he's out like a discount firework.

Similarly, I'm grabbing my coffee, sprinting out the door.

* * *

As I ride this underground pizzabox on wheels (or what passes for a subway in New York), there is no music. There's no paper, no book, no stranger interesting enough to keep me distracted. So, I usually just remember the past. Small bits and pieces of funny conversation with a friend I took for granted, or a slideshow of a trip I took up north to partake in the internationally recognized sport of Tipping Some Dumbass Cows, before I met my soon-to-be-bff, Alco Hol. Alco was great, even though I don't remember much about him, except that he had a long neck and after a while left a bitter taste in my mouth. But for once, I'm not reminiscing.

For the first time in months I find myself thinking about _this_. This brand spanking new life of mine.

I'm only really introspecting about it now because I noticed something strange (and I wouldn't notice a rhinoceros sitting on me, so you know this is big): every time I try to bring up Kai's albinism or, even that one other time; remember, from a few months back, when he got his ass beat? Every time it comes up in conversation, Tala_ always_ diverts me. But he's a goddamn Pokemon master at it; done subtly and with experience, so it never caught my attention until now. This time, he brought up Brooklyn (who he's never ever met- I'll get into my hysterics over this later on, when I'm up for re-living purebred horror), which was the straw that broke the camel's back. With no real plan, I decided to try to make a point with Tala, who ignores me more than the Grammy's do Ke$ha. You can pretty much guess how this turned out.

* * *

_**Cue Flashback**_

* * *

"Hey Tala," I had said evenly, trying to sound as indifferent as possible (in hindsight, I squeaked as loudly a piglet with a fresh tub of mud). "Do you find it interesting when you meet someone who speaks a language you can't?"

"I find it _more_ interesting when _you_ don't speak, period, because it's like a lunar eclipse: it happens once in a century and people wouldn't believe it unless you had documented proof."

No, that bitter taste was not a result of being reunited with Alco Hol, sampling Buckley's cough syrup, sipping on black coffee prepared by Kai after finding out he was not crowned Miss Pretty U.S.A., or even just hearing Kate Gosselin's name in passing. Rather, it was due to Tala's quick, vicious wit and my resulting idiotic bumbling having left me speechless.

"What I'm trying to say is," I continued, tripping over simple consonants I had no problem vocalizing just seconds ago. Damn his cold-war era Soviet mind-fuckery. "It's weird, isn't it? I mean, you're so probably used to knowing all the major languages that not being able to read someone is rare for you."

His eyes, swifter than Taylor herself, met mine. With the hard edge and cold freeze came an added glint I was not accustomed to.

"What are you implying, Kon?"

"I'm not implying anything. I'm practically spelling it out for you. I a-m p-r-a-c-t-i-"

He cut me off before I could win America's national spelling bee. "Do you know what the word_ imply _means? It's when you're hinting at something but not outright saying it. Being able to spell at a fifth grade level yet having the same level of word comprehension does not impress me, Kon. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got much more interesting things to do, like watch paint dry or attempt to remove every particle of dust from the air by hand."

The word _enraged _came to mind.

"What the_ hell _is wrong with you? Every time I sit down to have a proper conversation with you, you won't have any of it. It's like you wanna shut me up before we can become real fucking friends or something!"

His fluid walk is broken by a hitch in his step, yet Problem Number 1 regains his footing easily. He turns the corner into the hallway, but not before saying:

"And I thought you were dumb."

* * *

_**End flashback**_

* * *

"Christ! For fuck's sake, watch where you're going!"

"Hey, sorry man," says the fine chickenshit-like specimen before me. Doing nothing more than eyeing the scalding coffee (see: my overpriced Starshmucks addiction) on the floor, which he had almost spilled on me, he backs away slowly and blends into crowd.

Goddamn hipsters, breaking my train of thought and tossing five friggin' bucks down the drain.

Anyways, what I was trying to get to was saying how it's easy for him to read people, but for me it's hard. And because I'm borderline socially retarded, I've got a real weird relationship with Kai, and considering I live with him, it's not the ideal kind of connection to have with a person. All I was trying to do was get him, as a friend, to give me some tips about forging a bond while also trying to relate it back to something Tala would understand well.

It backfired because, as Tala had so eloquently _implied_, we're not real friends.

"Now stopping: University of New York. Please remain behind the yellow line until you completely stop at your destination," comes from the speakers of the underground rocket.

It's not until that lifeless voice breaks my thoughts that I realize the sharp pain coming from my hand.

Unclenching my colourless fists, I get off the platform.

* * *

"Hey, Brooklyn?"

"Hey," he says, smiling a bit too brightly. He hands me my goggles, brushing my hand as he pulls away, and gestures to follow him.

I slip them on and start following the redhead down the air-locked corridor. "Can I ask you something?"

"You just did."

I roll my eyes so far back in my head that I identify strange shapes in my brain matter. And I thought_ I_ was a smart ass.

"Do you know a guy named Tala? Tala Ivanov?"

The King of All Douches claims he doesn't know Brooklyn, but I'm not buying it (along with a number of other tasteful products; did you know I've only made five grand since I've been living in Obama-rama, most of which has gone to paying rent? A staple is out of budget range for me). I've been beginning to notice that Tala knows a little too much about me and the people I work with. Perhaps his memory is a stark contrast of mine, picture perfect; maybe he has some how read my laser-guarded journal that James Bond himself would have trouble breaking into; or, most likely, he just fucking listens and shit. Regardless, the sirens that went WOOP-WOOP-ing in my head last night when he pointed Brooklyn out were so loud that Stevie Wonder texted me with his shared concern. _Something's_ going on, and like Tala with a bottle of vodka, I am getting to the bottom of this.

His eyebrows furrow, and he pauses before he speaks. "No, I don't think so. The name does sound familiar, though."

At this point I am perkier than the things on Pamela Anderson's chest that us mortals laughably refer to as 'boobs'. "Really? You think he's a friend of a friend, or something?"

"Maybe," he says, pursing his lips. "I can't think of a face to match it to. It's just the name that sticks out."

Following behind him, I sigh when I don't get a definite answer. Brooklyn's irked, so he slows down to match my pace. Only when he intertwines his fingers with mine do I realize how futile this Tala thing is.

It could be anything, really. Problem Number 1 is a prominent translator, and his name could be flying around in the world of politics, and subsequently the news, which everyone in America seems to _love_ (I am willing to bet both kidneys that Tala and Kai, along with every gay in the world, would off themselves if Anderson Cooper ever went off air). Analytical thinking (see: any thinking of any kind) is not my strong suit, so I stop the process to stare at the pale hand lodged in my own.

...Well, that caught my interest for a total of three seconds.

The bright lights reflected from the metal walls, however, catch not only my interest, but also my cataracts and subsequent lifespan. The lengths U of N has gone to in keeping their cancer-fighting machine a secret is more ridiculous than the size of Tala's liquor cabinet. Reinforced steel holds an air-locked, underground tunnel that was previously used by students to get around the massive campus quicker and safer.

Speaking of which, the crime rate in this state rivals that of the entire goddamn Italian mob syndicate. The whole time I've been here (which, up to this moment has been a grand total of 5 months, 2 days, 3 hours, 34 minutes, and 22, 23, 24, 25 (….and that's all that kindergarden taught me) seconds) I've witnessed shoplifting, physical assault, and what I assume to be traffic violations (I don't have a solid grasp of the American criminal code, but even my peabrain assumes that trying to walk your dog with one hand out of the driver's window while keeping the other on the steering wheel is not only against the law, but borderline retarded). To put the shittiest cherry on top of the most repulsive, Mr. Pedo-like ice cream sundae anyone's ever had the misfortune to see, I've even been robbed at gun point within the first hour of arriving to this fine (cough) land. At first I thought this impenetrable underground fortress was a stretch, but then I utilized the overworked final neuron I have left, and realized that this is no where near _enough_ protection from what lays outside. Until we get a Transformer, Shia LaBeefCakes, and Megan Foxy guarding the campus, I'll be hanging out in this cold, dark, and unforgiving chamber that no one else could possible reach. Also known as "Tala's Heart", if you need to look me up in the phone book or something.

Brooklyn pipes up, out of the blue.

"Ray?"

When he doesn't continue, a weight settles itself in my stomach. Brooklyn never needs prompting.

"Yeah?"

"I've been thinking-"

What is he, bragging?

"-and well, remember how months ago, we were at that conference announcing the cure, and you told me you were an illegal immigrant?"

"I barely remember how to use a mirror sometimes, Brooklyn."

"Oh, come on. You downplay yourself to the point that you have a negative I.Q., or something. You're smarter than you make it seem. You have to remember. "

"Alright, I do remember," I admit, loosening my hold on his hand by a fraction. "I don't want to talk about it here, alright? The metal bounces your voice around. Anyone could hear."

"There's no one else in here. Only two people through the tunnel at a time. The security latch system at the front makes sure," he rebuffed, intent on my reaction.

"Fine then. What do you want to know?"

More concerned than before, Brooklyn continues, his hand squeezing the colour out of mine.

"Something's bothering me about your story. You said you hopped the border, but since 9/11, it's been impossible to cross the border into this country, especially New York."

His eyes dim considerably when he mentions 9/11. Both Tala and Kai have the same reaction when it's brought up in the news, even though it hasn't affected anyone dire to either of them. It's sort of like an asshole cloud hanging over New York's head, refusing to move and let the hippy-dippy-smiley-time sunlight from the horizon shine through. It's been a vault of paranoia for a lot of the people here, even though Fox News (see: Faux News) had reported again and again of the increased safety and overall ass-kicking of suspected terrorists. I guess my easy entrance is what's been worrying Brooklyn.

"Well, I don't think it's anything to be, you know, concerned about. I'm a 19 year old Canadian kid that can't past 25, apparently, and I was born and raised there. I had no criminal record, not even any traffic tickets. And besides the hobo-like clothes, I look pretty harmless. All of that plus a little flirting is what got me into the country. It's not like I approached the border with dynamite strapped to my chest while screaming incoherent war crimes and customs was like, 'Looks harmless. Let him in.' Security's pretty good here, is what I'm trying to say. Nothing to be worried about, okay?"

Brooklyn squints at me, and it's uncannily similar to the way Tala does before he threatens to have me lobotomized.

"That's... nice to know. And I'm sure seciruty in this country is fine and everything," he adds quickly, as if to appease the paranoid schizophrenic within me, "but don't you think it's strange that how America's set up countless laws against terrorists... and even illegal immigrants plus the law officials who let them into the country, but you still got in? And don't you think it's a little weird how even though there has to be at least 6 customs officers at a post -I looked it up-, all it took was one to let you in? And the other 5 had nothing to say about it?"

"I guess that is strange, now that I think about it," is what I say out loud, when in my head the only thing going on is the Price is Right theme song. I idly wonder how much longer we have to walk this goddamn marathon to the next destination. Where'd they locate this miracle machine, Luxembourg?

"And don't you think how it's weird that they didn't check your paperwork? You didn't even have a passport on you, for Christ's sake. And isn't it weird how you got a job in this country without a social security number even thought Langstaff can be imprisoned with a life sentence? I don't think anyone is that desperate for personnel, especially when there are Master's students from this school who are_ dying_ for research positions. But you, a shifty foreigner with no background and minimal, undocumented experience in this field was given the job without a second glance?"

Through out Brooklyn's revelation, it's grown silent in my head. I don't know if I should tell him this, but maybe it'll get him to shut up and stop freaking me out so goddamn much.

"The guy I'm rooming with got me the job. Langstaff knows the risks and everything. Tala convinced him to do this all in secrecy."

"But _why_?" Brooklyn asks reverently, pulling away from my loose hold. He steps back, digging his hands into his pockets. "What's in it for him?"

"He didn't tell me. Tala said it wasn't my business," I responded, slowly realizing the severity of Brooklyn's suspicions.

"And you're telling me that didn't seem odd to you, Ray? That everything just fell perfectly into place?"

My eyes dart back and fourth, searching the floor for an answer. A beat later, a swooshing sound stops and starts, rhythmically.

"I mean, didn't you ever stop to think about it? How did you even meet this Tala guy? And you were asking me about him just minutes ago; are you finally starting to see through this? Is that why you were asking me?"

I rub my forehead, trying to prompt the memory to resurface.

"Well? Don't yo-"

"I don't know!"

I was right- voice does carry here. It's like I shouted through a bull horn, which makes the following silence all the more apparent.

"You should go back home."

His fists are clenched as he continues.

"It's not right here. It's not _safe_ here," he corrects, looking around. "You should leave. You got in easy, and leaving should be the same. I can drive you to the border after work tonight."

Staring at him, mouth agape, the world shatters to pieces. Again.

Something beeps down the long hallway, grabbing my attention. I watch the flicking light it came from for what seems like eternity in a nutshell, until I realize it's the final authorization plate.

We're at the end of the tunnel.

* * *

I still have Kai's iPod from months ago, when he let me take it in exchange for getting the hell out of his room. Keeping it tucked away for so long, I haven't even made use of it. Besides the fact that I've been deprived of music for so long that I don't rely on it anymore, I also don't have any damn earphones to listen to it with. I would readily assail Dr. Dre, Steve Jobs, or Mr. Skullcandy just for the chance to sneak away with a free pair. But, as Tala had so ironically taught me after I tried to punch him for violently shoving me into a shopping cart in a busy parking lot: "I don't know how it works in America's Hat, but down here, assault is illegal, Kon." Missing the irony I had tried to point out, Tala then proceeded to bribe me into silence by assuring me the quarter used to rent the cart would be mine if I returned it promptly. I kept my silence for about, oh, I don't know, 5 minutes, before I broke into a vocal dance party upon seeing sticky rice on sale. Tala complained, with all seriousness, saying we had a deal.

Staring out the subway windows, gray blurs into gray. Nothing is stable.

I thought he was joking.

* * *

_Read and Review, please, please, please, please._


	11. The One Where He Learns the Truth

Longer author's note, since I've been away for so long.

First and foremost: for anyone new to my stories (which seems to be quite a few of you), know that I generally update once or twice a year. For older readers, sorry for the unnecessary reminder; know that it's in response to semi-panicked inbox messages and/or reviews, asking me to update under the assumption I've left the fandom. I haven't, because I've never been completely _in_ it (HA! That's what she said). Think about it- if you gave Ray, Kai, Tala, and Brooklyn different names, this would be a completely original story. It's not in the Beyblade universe whatsoever, so I can't get irritated by the rules of the fandom and quit in a huff. Don't worry- I'll keep writing this until I feel it's finished*.

Secondly: The reason why updates have been so laggy and slow is because I had to get a lot of the clues and establishing the characters and their personalities and other boring stuff out of the way before I could get to the exciting part. Having said that, please review; I'd actually like to know whether or not you like this change in the plot, because if most of you do, I'd be a lot more willing to sit down write more often. This is what I was waiting for, and it feels borderline Godly to finally be putting to paper what I've always wanted to write.

FINALLY: Pretty serious chapter, _very_ few jokes. Sorry folks; had to get things moving.

* * *

The One Where He Learns the Truth

* * *

"Where the hell were you, Kon? It's darker than Satan's stool sample out there."

I lock the front door behind me.

"What's wrong?" Tala continues, his voice distant. "Cat got your tongue?"

There is something wrong with my fingers, because they won't let go of the door handle. There is something wrong with my legs, because they won't turn around to face my fears. There is something wrong with my head, because it's won't shut up so I can hear myself think. There is something wrong with reality, because it won't level itself, no matter how many times it gets turned upside down.

"He can't have his own tongue," Someone retorts. Tala snorts. My hand clenches tighter on the handle when I try to move it away.

Has there really been something so sinister underneath it all that even my damn_ body_ knows? Was I too stupid to see it all, or too smart? Is Brooklyn overreacting, or am I under-reacting? Is pure terror not enough- should I be running?

Okay, relax, Kon. Before you make any rash decisions -like kicking the door in and screaming incoherent tribal calls as you leave Kai and Tala in a state that can only be described as ? ? ? ? ?- think rationally, for _once_ in your damn life. Everything Brooklyn pointed out was one hundred percent true- if it wasn't, I wouldn't be reacting in innate fear like I am now. But could everything -the suspiciousness behind Tala's intent on keeping me here, how easily I got into one of the most well protected countries in the world, the way I got my job- just be one _hell_ of a coincidence? I mean, they happen all the time- even biological psychology proves it. It's called apophenia- that's how common it is. In science, when a phenomenon is reoccurring, it's eventually studied and given a scientific measure and name to compliment. Apophenia -coincidences- have. It's got to be real and rational and palpable if it's a part of the one thing I know how to do right, hasn't it?

Something grabs my shoulder. I jolt around, digging my claws into the grooves in the solid oak door behind me.

"What in God's name is wrong with you _this_ time, Kon?" Tala asks with familiarity, like I'm a buddy. Like I'm a friend- even though we're not. "You're always in some sort of mood. Feel free to spill your rice-filled guts."

I stare at him, not knowing where to start. Not knowing when or how or even _if_ I should start.

Annoyed at my response (or lack of), Tala rolls his eyes. He lifts his hand, curves his middle finger downwards and his thumb upwards until they meet. Moving so swiftly that I don't even fully catch the motion, he places his looped fingers on the center of my forehead. Then, he flicks me.

"Snap the hell out of it. What- did Brooklyn break your delicate 19-year-old heart?" He crosses his arms over his chest, tilts his head, and his blue eyes shine in the light. For a fleeting second, I think he frowns. "From what you have told me, he's not the brightest marble in the batch, that moron. It's good- you cut your losses before you got in too deep."

And then, I finally make the connection. The one thing that makes sense- that nothing makes sense, except for one thing: even though they haven't met each other, Tala and Brooklyn _hate_ each other**.

"How..."

Tala's brow furrows at my response, and he blinks as if _I'm_ the one who has something to explain. As if I'm the one that's torturing him. As if I'm the one who's making him fear for his own life. As if I'm as worthless as a penny. As if I don't have emotions or a need for stability, friendship, empathy, and love.

He blinks like _he's_ the one who can't trust anyone anymore.

I stand up straight, facing Tala, no longer clinging to the door. My eyes clear as the purest glass and my voice as solid as the oak behind me, I smile naturally. Tala's guard drops, along with his crossed arms. It's amazing what self-perseverance does to you.

"How do you know Brooklyn, Tala?" I ask, feigning polite interest.

"We've been over this, Kon; I don't." He responds, rolling his eyes, again. "Now stop your ridiculous puttering and get to the kitchen. Show me how to make sticky rice, and _properly_ this time. Your handwriting is as readable as the Twilight series. It says something about mil-"

He cuts short as I monstrously yank his forearm, clawing, hoping it tears out of the socket. Tala squeaks, too surprised to form a coherent response.

"How do you know Brooklyn, Tala?" I shout, livid.

Thrown against the door, the back of my head smashing against the solid wood, that Someone shouts something unintelligible from far away, and all I cling to is what I know. And what I know is that your brain isn't drilled to your skull- it floats in this jelly-like fluid. So when you hit the back of your head, your floating brain is catapulted forward and the lobe directly beneath your forehead -the forebrain- is damaged, not the back of it. And your forebrain holds your memories- it keeps a lock on everything that makes you who you are. When it's hit hard enough, the lock cracks, and it all slips away.

And I think, maybe that isn't so bad.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Kon?" Tala growls, rubbing his arm with his red hand.

And I think, maybe I want to forget.

"He knows?" Someone speculates, having popped out of no where with his hips leaning against the front foyer's inner doorway.

And I think, maybe I need to forget.

I push myself off the door as efficiently as someone without brain damage would, and quietly curse my sturdy skull.

"Yeah," I confirm. The one time where the shaky lie that clearly gives away my innocence would save my dumbass instead of grilling; the one time it would come in handy, my voice comes out as confident as Kanye West. "I know."

That Someone -my Someone, the only Someone I want to call The One- closes the distance between us by binding his arms around my neck with dangerous force, taking me down in an expertly delivered restraint. My neck cracks, and I wish I had taken that first year course in neurology so I would know whether or not to be concerned. Tala barks something at Kai, my Someone, and he grips me tighter. I don't know if I should be turned on or terrified. Working together, Tala sits on my legs, grabs my wrists, lifts them over my head as I try to claw and kick at anything within reach. Kai's forearm comes around my arms and covers my eyes, effectively caging my upper half. To top it all off (literally and figuratively), metal bangles click closed around my wrists, restraining me as I try to pry my arms apart. They're ice cold.

In contrast, hot breath grazes my ear.

"Listen up, Kon," Tala says so calmly that you'd think we were at a day spa. "So Bogdan told you everything."

I don't know who Bogdan is, but for some reason I hope he's burning in the deep pits of hell and that I can chuck lumps of Satan's turd at him when I get there, which, at this rate, may be sooner than later.

"Fucking fantastic. Great for the both of you. I want you to know something before you jump to any..." Tala pauses, and I hear his all too familiar snort.

Kai's forearms are covering my eyes, so I imagine Tala smirking and running his fingers through his fire red bangs, because that's what he always does after he snorts. I can also imagine him waking up in the morning with his hair in a pony tail and glasses perched on his nose, and I can imagine him sitting on my bed, giving me abusive advice as he inspects the moulding in the ceiling. I can imagine him speaking throaty Russian with Someone. I can imagine the nostalgic look on his face when he talks about his home land, and the grimace on his face when we talk about mine. I can imagine him in a suit and can admit that he cleans up good, even though I don't want to. I can imagine his horrified face after he saw the puke in that brand new can of paint, that dramatic asshole. And I can imagine the quiet support he gave when I was just about ready to throw myself onto an open hearth; it radiated, just enough, when I needed it.

Of all the things I can imagine Tala doing, this was not one of them.

"...rash conclusions." He continues, but I don't know if he said anything in between. "Because it will not only end badly for us, but you as well. No witness protection program is protection enough from me. Do you understand?"

Just kidding.

"Is the kid fucking deaf?" Kai asks when I don't respond, choking off my airway. "Did you hear him, asshole? Huh?"

I can see it, frame by frame. Just _look_.

"Loosen your damn grip. We don't get the..." Tala trails off, slowly transitioning into Russian. Kai's arms do as Tala demanded, and my breathing slowly transitions from choking into haggard breathing.

With Kai still keeping strict guard on me, Tala disappears into the kitchen, and comes back with a roll of paper towel. Even though it's nothing compared to Kai's skin, Tala is pretty light himself. So the crimson red claw marks - the ones I left during my screaming fit- stand out more dramatically then they should. He blots at them, stops, looks at me, glares, then throws the paper towel aside.

And that is when it hits me- like a car that couldn't skid to a stop fast enough, that one neuron I have left flashes the image of a bloodied handkerchief in the back seat of Kai's car. That hankerchief that reminded me how beat up Kai had looked at the time. That handkerchief that Tala had told me to ask Kai about, which I never did.

I look up at the redhead, taken aback.

"Were... you trying to warn me?"

"Incoherent rambling. That's lovely," Tala responds, still examining his arm. "You're faster than you look, Kon."

Kai chuckles, says something in Vodkatongue, and Tala's eyes narrow.

"The... remember when I was going on a date with Brooklyn and-"

"I've told you this before, Kon," Tala cuts me short. He's nearly roaring. "Don't tell me about your personal, revolting _drivel_; I am not your friend. Do you understand me?"

"So you were trying to warn me," I conclude, remembering how that had bothered me so much. Did he want me to ask Kai about the bloody cloth because it would have led to me figuring out who these two really are? Was making it clear that he wasn't my friend Tala's way of telling me to run as fast as I could from this place and never look back?

Before I can continue on this hot streak of coherent and fluid thinking that rarely (see: never) comes to me, I find my face being squashed like an orange about to be juiced. Tala digs his nails into my cheeks, and I hiss.

"What the fuck are you talking about, Kon?" He asks, sounds almost all angry and a touch curious.

"That bloody hankerchief- Bloth. And you told me we weren't friends... were you trying to help me? Give me little nudges to get the hell out of here before I discovered... whatever the fuck this is?" I ask, something in my throat about to give.

I don't know why -he's insulted both me and Brooklyn, thrown me against a solid wood door, threatened me, and nearly peeled my face off- but for some reason, even the thought of Tala trying to help me; I'm touched.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Tala snaps, trying to pull together the flesh covering the hallows below my cheek bones. My mouth is prodded open, and he presses harder.

"Buh remembah- I thaw the bwoody coth in Kai'th van an you thold me tho athk him about eh?" I manage around Tala's fierce grip.

At the sound of his name, Kai asks, "What'd he say?"

Tala's eyes widen a bit, and his grip loosens by a fraction.

"An I athked you about you jhob an you bruthed me ahff an thaid weir not fweinds?" I continued, my jaw aching. Who knew this could hurt so fucking much?

"We are not friends," he affirms, but he doesn't sound confident- he murmurs it. He's far away, staring at the carpeted floor, his hold on my face slowly loosening.

"Tala, what the fuck is he _saying_?"

His gaze moves from the floor to my eyes. "You're lying. Why would I say that shit to you, Kon? Why the fuck would I tell you to ask Kai about the bloody tissue, huh? That would only help you figure shit out when I don't give a damn about you. I'm _using_ you."

Unless he was using me as a personal rice-cooker turner oner, he did a pretty shit job of utilizing me in any other way. Besides lazing around the house and doing a half ass job at work, I haven't done anything in the five months I've been here.

From behind me, Kai is incredulous.

"You told him to do that?" Kai asks, insulted. "Why the fuck- after everything we did to keep who we are a secret?"

"If I fucking did -which I didn't- you probably did something fucking stupid to provoke me, _vam kusok derma!"_

The reason I caught those last three Russian words is because I hear Tala grumble it all the time when he's angry. I don't know what it means, but I'm pretty sure it's not in any Russian etiquette books because Kai's left my side to yell into Tala's face.

"Just because you're my boss doesn't mean you shouldn't fucking respect me," Kai seethes, staring into Tala's icy, unmoving eyes. "After all the shit we've been through together, you were the last person I fucking expected that from."

"You're not the only one," I whisper, but neither of them hear.

Tala retorts calmly in Russian, to which Kai responds to by becoming redder than Tala's head and bellows something in response. Tala does the same until a full screaming match starts. They seem distracted, so I start pulling apart my wrists in hard, jerky motions, trying to break the thick chain holding the handcuffs together. I keep doing this even though I know it's pointless; if I do somehow get free, what'll I do after that? Go to the police? I'm an illegal immigrant for Christ's sake. If they lose, so do I. I can't go to Brooklyn because... I can't explain it, but now I have a suspicious feeling about him, too. I'm too afraid to go to the border, I have no means of getting there, and now that I think about it, if I stood up Kai would probably football tackle me back down. And, wait- who the hell is Bogdan?

"_Shto_- wait. Wait a fucking minute," Tala cuts himself off abruptly, going from loud and Russian to quiet and English in a heart beat. "'Whatever the fuck this is?'"

"You're fucking nuts, just like the fucking kid!" Kai yells, about to shove him into the wall when Tala grabs him by the wrists, stopping him short.

"Kon," Tala growls. "What the fuck do you mean buy 'whatever the fuck this is?'"

Kai stops his tirade just as abruptly as Tala did, staring at me his eyes wide and his lips parted in surprise. "Well?" he asks, calm as a Hindu cow.

"Uh," I respond intelligently. I had that said before, but I'm afraid responding honestly will cost me a body part. "What's the big deal?"

"You said you _knew_," Tala says, growling the last word. "You said you knew everything- who we are, what we are, what we do. Were you lying, Kon?"

Oh, shit.

"Well," I retort, my voice as high as Bob Marley. "N-no! I'm telling the truth!"

Groaning just as dramatically as I would have expected, Tala fists his hair. I should have known a hell of a lot better than that- Tala sees through my lies as clearly as you'd see through a clean window.

"The damn bastard is making this up! He doesn't know _shit!_" He accuses, staring daggers into my eyes like this was all some sort of personal attack on him. "Why did you make shit up, Kon? Do you know what you've _done?"_

"Fuck you!" I counter, but it sounds part question and part anger instead of the all outrage I was aiming for. I try to get up so that they stop looking down at me but standing upright more impossible than figuring out what the fuck is going on when your hands are restrained.

"I'm gonna sock this fucking kid," Kai grunts, eyes clenched as he rubs his eyes too roughly for it to be comfortable.

"It's your fucking fault! Did you think I wouldn't notice all this eventually? That you're paying my board and got me a job and..." I hesitate, genuinely not sure if this next part is Tala's doing or just plain luck. "...and helped me hop the border? You brought this on yourself, because you thought I was stupid enough not to notice, so fuck you and fuck the Soviet air missile you rode in this country on, you fucking... terrorists!"

Both of their faces light up like Christmas trees, staring at me, dumbfounded.

"He knows!" Kai exclaims, pointing a slender finger at me. "Or..." Some more Russian, before he turns to Tala. "Does he? I don't even fucking know anymore."

Forgive me- it's been a long day, so it takes a second before an oversized gavel with the words 'WELL DUH' printed on it bangs itself onto my head.

"You're terrorists?" I screech, the words sounding ill fitting in the open air. "I was just speaking figuratively!"

"He kind of knows," Tala concludes, tilting his head, like he's looking at me for the first time. He turns to Kai. "Bogdan's a fucking dead man. I'm serious- put him on _Schrologchka_."

Kai looks at me, too, like he's never seen me in his entire life- curiously, with this little light in his red eyes. I'm only mentioning this because ceither of them are yelling, screaming, their arms aren't crossed anymore, they aren't restraining and/or trying to rip my face off, and they're not looking at me with eagle eyes- those eyes that look like they're about to hunt me down, even though they were only minutes ago. I can't explain it properly, but it's like some of the hostility is gone- like someone twisted a nozzle and drained it from the room.

Tala's shoulders finally, finally relax. They were tense since the second I attacked him until now, and I'm not sure if this a good thing or a mind game.

"But now you know everything's not what it seems to be."

Tala's surprisingly understanding tone causes me to watch him as he runs his hands through his crimson red hair, making it stick up in every direction. He stops, leans against the front door, and looks up at the ceiling, analyzing the moulding in the ceiling. You know, I used to think he did this because he was a meticulous renovation loving asshole, but now I see he just does it when he's thinking.

"Where do we go from here?" Kai asks, looking at me instead of Tala.

Tala sighs, and starts rubbing his temples. "The living room."

"That's not what I mean-"

"Take him to the living room, and tell him what we've been planning. It'll be a few months ahead of schedule, but we can work with it." Tala decides, and a weight settles itself in the tiny foyer. I can't help but feel a big decision's been made; so big that even the room knows it.

"Fine," Kai says as he walks behind me. He grabs onto the back of my arms. "Get up."

I do as told, and he pulls me up so I don't fall over. Again, despite all the psycotic shit that just happened, I'm touched. "What if I don't want to know what's going on?"

"Then we kill you, wrap you in a carpet, and toss you in that lovely little ghetto where I found you," Tala responds easily, smiling.

I quietly poop myself as I'm lead to the living room by Kai, with Tala following close by. They sit me on the big couch I always loved to nap on and pull up two of the dining room chairs, placing in front of me. While they do, I stare at the handcuffs, wondering where they got this from and who they are. I wonder if Tala's name is really Tala and if Kai's name is really Kai and why, of all people, this is happening to a haply nineteen year old Canadian kid that just wanted his parents to love him.

I'm jolted out of my thoughts by the feeling of stares. I look up, and the Problems -if only I knew how problematic they would become for me when I nicknamed them that- have settled in their seats.

There is a quiet, almost awkward silence- the one that always settles when the three of us are together. It's funny that even though everything's different, some things never change.

"Where to even begin..." Tala starts, his eyes roaming up and down me. "I suppose at the beginning."

"What if he doesn't agree?" Kai suddenly asks, staring at his feet. Does Kai have some sort of mental problem? Wish I had taken that third year course in abnormal psychology- it's not normal to go from seething to meek in a matter or minutes, is it?

"We deal with it when we get there," Tala says, calm and cool as (almost) always.

He leans over, rests his elbows on his knees, and bunches his hands together into one big fist, resting his chin on it. "Do you remember the day we met, Ray?"

That's the first time he's _ever_ called me Ray.

"No," I say breathlessly, genuinely surprised at Tala's unaggressive demeanour.

"Well, let me remind you..."

* * *

Cliffhangin' like a motherfucker! U mad? U mad bro?

Read and review, please.

In text asterisks:

*Correlation will probably be around 20-25 chapters.

**Shout out to Pixxy. Dust, who caught this (well, half) last chapter! It's really nice to find people picking up the littles clues instead of going "Lewl das weird" and moving on.


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